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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244423">To my God, I sacrifice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn'>branwyn</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souhashi/pseuds/Souhashi'>Souhashi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Parent Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:27:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244423</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souhashi/pseuds/Souhashi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Reese wants to see who has gone through all this trouble to snatch him from the streets, it’s way too long after whatever beef he has accumulated throughout the years. The amount of duct tape securing him to the chair and his missing clothes indicates cartel bullshit, the methodology not so much. They might do theatrics but they would not lovingly treat his withdrawal before feeding him his balls. If anything, they would want him coked up and strung out, to feel every micro inch of his face getting flayed.</i>
</p><p>John Reese is done following orders. Betrayed by his partner and left for dead, he is perfectly content to continue down that path.</p><p>Root follows them unquestioningly, in search of a purpose. Until now.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Reese &amp; Root | Samantha Groves, background Kara Stanton/John Reese, background Zoe Morgan/John Reese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Person of Interest Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. UNEXPECTED_INITIALIZATION_CALL</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This has been a ride, but a nice one, as it can't be all work and no create forever. It started as four lines and it somehow became the longest fic I've ever written and the most challenging. I've enjoyed writing it, I'm already missing my 1am writing sprints, and hopefully you'll enjoy it as well.<br/>A million thanks to the amazing <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn">branwyn</a> who made the gorgeous art for my story, it's been a pleasure.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p>
  <span>Things look different from the ground. It’s ingrained in human nature to get up when you fall, to avoid falling altogether, to feel disgust at the creatures that slither about in the mud. A fallen man is a dead man, since time immemorial. And dead men stop concerning the living. It was not exactly a vantage spot but John Reese found the dark doorway a perfectly serviceable spot to lay low for the night. Those that never fell ignored him or spared him a glance and quickened their steps. Those that fell and sought trouble, would soon find out how things worked. Here, down below in the underbelly of society, they were beyond laws and civilisation. They were animals, and they looked, and smelled the part. The stink of piss and vomit was cloying, masked only when he tipped the glass. The burn was strong, making his eyes water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between mouthfuls of cheap booze, Reese watched. The nigh acidic alcohol could only dull but never kill what he had built over decades and to his great detriment, it’s the only part of his brain that it’s still working. The man he was died a long time ago and it had left a monster in his place, stalking in the dark. It prowled and stared, glared and analysed every damn soul that ventured by this part of town. In the early hours of the morning, all is quiet. There isn’t much traffic and the occasional pedestrian is in a similar condition to him. The man running the 24/7 convenience store comes out for a smoke every 3 and a half hours, surveying the area before going back in. Between the store and a defunct laundromat sits a lonely payphone- are people even using these things anymore? - they seem to do, Reese was scavenging for coins and managed to pull a quarter or two from it. Only tonight it started ringing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On and on it went, for minutes it seemed. Someone was waiting for an answer and apparently had extremely high hopes for the beat up payphone. The noise is grating against Reese’s ears and he takes another swig, the world bathed in a dirty gold colour as the bottle blocks his vision. Once the burn dies off and he can see straight again, the ringing has stopped, but not because of the power of thought or his sheer hatred for the noise. A woman has answered the call, clasping the receiver close to her body, both hands. Reese watched. The yellow glow of the street light made details hard to see but the white on her knuckles was hard to miss. Black nail polish glints on her nails, chipped at the edges. Not a familiar face and not a drug addict seeking the dealers that like to prowl this stretch of road. Dark clothes, a jacket with the hood pulled on, nice boots. Reese blinked, shaking his head. The booze was getting to him. It’s all so wrong, setting off instincts to both sides of his brain, the same way Kara used to raise his hackles and put him on edge. Shivering, he blinked again, draining the bottle. The woman was gone, the receiver back in its place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts the bottle again and tries to take another gulp but all he gets is fumes and disappointment. That’s fine. He has learned to welcome the numbness that the booze brings him, the sleep it brings hard and stiff like death. It’s what he needs. What he deserves. The tug at his mind is powerful and he sinks fast, blending into the darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his dreams, he always walks the field of corpses. It was all so quiet save for the crunch of bullets under his feet. The sun was up, reflecting on the windows of the high-rise building but the smell of death hadn’t settled in yet. Whatever happened, it happened recently and fast. Kara was with him but she was always a shadow, prowling among the dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Machine man was in his usual spot, appearing as he reached the thirteenth window of the building. </span>
</p><p>“<span>They took it” the man says, in broken Mandarin “The Machine” </span></p><p>“<span>What’s the Machine?” Reese would ask every time and then he would be shot, the world whirling around him as he fell, joining the dead. The sting of betrayal was greater than the pain of the wound and the hellish rumble that followed was always welcome.</span></p><p>
  <span>He never gets to hear it because he snaps awake, just in time to see the black van parked in front of him, a man pulling the door open. The steps approaching him cause him to react, tucking his legs under him for a lunge but whoever has come after him has anticipated this because they herd him in the corner. They spray mace in his face and a boot connects with his chin, sending him flying. The world goes black as a hood gets pulled on his face and he’s hefted up and carried to the waiting van.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They would come for him eventually. The things he’d done, he wouldn’t stop running until he reached the lowest rung of hell, and then he would have to keep going. As he felt them tug at his head to expose his neck he closed his eyes and sent his mind away before they got the needle in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bits and pieces is all he gets for a while. There is a hum that varies in pitch and speed and amplitude, could be voices. His body is heavy but he can’t tell what restrains it. Staying still keeps the hum from appearing, allowing him to get as much information as he can, before he feels the ice cold bite on his neck again and he’s off to the darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cold current of air pulls him back to consciousness, raising the hair on his arms and legs. Some kind of adhesive, irritating and chemical-smelling tugs at his bare skin everywhere, his arms, his chest, his calves and thighs, securing him to the metal chair. Reese groans, more out of frustration than anything else. Smoke and mirrors, a waste of time and a roll of perfectly good duct tape. As the fog clears and he gets the peripherals out of the way he becomes curious. He licks his lips and detects a chemical taste, pills. Could it be cocaine? His body disagrees, way too sluggish for that. A moment he realises he had been drinking heavily, he was cut off cold turkey and he hasn’t had the shakes or delirium yet. Ah. Benzos. That’s nice of them. A million and one questions run in his mind but for that small act of kindness, he’s thankful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reese wants to see who has gone through all this trouble to snatch him from the streets, it’s way too long after whatever beef he has accumulated throughout the years. The amount of duct tape securing him to the chair and his missing clothes indicates cartel bullshit, the methodology not so much. They might do theatrics but they would not lovingly treat his withdrawal before feeding him his balls. If anything, they would want him coked up and strung out, to feel every microinch of his face getting flayed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is dark and nobody comes. Nobody came when he was asleep either, there are no injuries to speak of, save for the split lip. Reese exhales through his nose, tired of this already. He flexes his fists and starts working on loosening the tape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smell of coffee gets to him before he hears the heels on the concrete, echoing across the abandoned building. The cacophony of the reverberated cues make it difficult to pinpoint location and just like that phone call, it sends a lance of pain through Reese’s brain. He closes his eyes to stop the headache and when he opens them a tall, slender figure stands before him, framed by a halo of faint yellow light.</span>
</p><p>“<span>John Reese I presume?” Knowing his name is not good. Only a handful of people that knew that name were in neutral terms with him, let alone friendly. </span></p><p>
  <span>The high-pitched, playful voice that made the question is so wrong, so out of place it makes him shake his head. He wants to tell her to cut the bullshit and go home but it’s funny in a way and he has to clear his throat to choke back a laugh. Never stereotype, never assume. He’s met a shitload of beautiful, vulnerable, polite and downright disgusting people in his career, even by his low standards. Many of which had very valid reasons to hate him and to want his death but never this voice. Never this person. Perhaps he has forgotten. And the last year he’s been trying to forget. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman steps forward, revealing a face framed with long chestnut hair. She’s pretty, slim and tall but that’s all background noise, it’s the eyes that make Reese pay attention, setting him on edge. Her soul is burning behind the bright white sclera, violent and lethal and highly intelligent. Kara had similar eyes and the uncanny ability to pretend she was someone else. Reese might have wronged this woman after all.</span>
</p><p>“<span>What do I owe you?” </span></p><p>“<span>Nothing right now. All I know is I need to hire you”</span></p><p>“<span>Not for sale. Who are you working for?” </span></p><p>“<span>That’s not for you to ask”</span></p><p>“<span>Then untie me and piss off. I don’t do need-to-know anymore. I don’t do anything” </span></p><p>“<span>Honest as honest goes. You have a history of doing nothing. Two years ago, you dumped your ex in an airport to go die in some war. When she called you to ask for help, you promised her you’d come then promptly left her to be killed by her violent boyfriend. You killed him, but too little, </span><span><em>too late”</em></span></p><p>
  <span>She spits out the words, putting real passion in her performance as an interrogator and Reese can’t help but feel a slight sting at her words. It should have stayed just a sting, he’d spend a year and half flagellating himself raw but it hits him, tearing at the torn muscle and exposed flesh. Red is all he sees and her in the middle of it and throws himself against the tape, making the chair creak . </span>
</p><p>“<span>You shut your mouth” he growls, flexing his fists. He wants to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze, until the light, and the fire goes out. </span></p><p>
  <span>She smiles and flicks her head, flicking a wayward lock of hair off her face. For a moment, she cocks her head, eyelids lowered as if she’s thinking and then turns back to him.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Don’t think that I enjoy this” she says, sneering as she puts her hands in her pockets and starts pacing. “If it were up to me, I would just let you go on your merry way. Cirrhosis can’t be that far if you don’t fling yourself from a bridge first.” She turns to look at him, crossing the threshold of safety to rest her hands on his, pressing them down on the metal rails. “There are bigger forces than us at play here and for some reason, I have been asked to offer you...a chance.” She's close enough for Reese to see his reflection in her wide eyes, stretching out in a monstrous depiction of awe and fear. </span></p><p>
  <span>He's listening, unable to figure out what the hell the woman is talking about, whether she believes what she’s spouting or this is an elaborate prank to tug at heartstrings long torn and frayed for a nefarious purpose. </span>
</p><p>“<span>I don’t want another chance” Reese says, his lips stretching in a bitter imitation of a smile. “You’re probably some wannabe merc or some rich chick who got enabled too much by daddy, either way I’m not interested.” </span></p><p>
  <span>She stares at him with an understandable mixture of anger and bemusement and he holds her gaze easily, wanting to see how far she can keep this up. He’s not really impressed so far, but in terms of interesting proposals, she’s a gold star. They stay there for a while, daring each other to back off and she eventually breaks, returning back to her pacing.</span>
</p><p>“<span>You used to do work for the government” She says after a pause “You used to make people disappear” </span></p><p>
  <span>She already knows all this, so Reese just nods. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Ever wondered where your intel came from?” </span></p><p>“<span>I think you know that I did” They always put a “target missing” on missions deemed inconclusive. Reese made sure they stayed that way.</span></p><p>“<span>The government wanted more efficient ways to control its people. It started with bugs and paid prostitutes, then they turned to computers to help them spy on individuals deemed persons of interest. In 2011, something went online. A machine...with a thousand eyes and a million ears, all to predict crime.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Reese frowns, wondering what is the reason for this spiel. At the back of his brain, the Machine man gasps for breath.</span>
</p><p>“<span>How do you know all this?” He asks, deciding to play along.</span></p><p>“<span>I listened. Every 18 hours, someone is murdered in New York Before that, a payphone rings. If you answer it, you’ll get a Social Security Number. Sometimes, it just talks.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Reese thinks back to that ringing payphone, the woman who answered it and it all seems to make sense, so much sense but he cannot deny the sheer absurdity of it all. Of course the government was spying on its citizens, he was one of the many heads of that beast but why would they suddenly care about the average Joe or make their systems talk to this nutcase- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has about a fraction of a second to realise the woman is gone from his field of vision before he feels the needle go in his neck.</span>
</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p>
  <span>When Reese wakes up, he's in a more familiar place and an all too familiar position, groggy and thrown on the floor like an empty sack. Horizontally, the world had a certain charm. It was an authentic rat experience. The floor of the warehouse stinks, as everything that has come into contact with a gaggle of destitute people but it's home and that’s all that matters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a vague memory of being kidnapped and tied up swirling around in his mind, further away from all of the garbage in there, more recent. It could have happened, it could also be a figment of his imagination or an old memory. Lots of things went bump in the night when he was drunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was definitely real was the weight in his hands, sharp across his palm and the bottom of his fingers. Reese tries to move them up so he can see what the hell that was but the one will not move without the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a memory then. He just hopes they kept the indignities to a minimum. Not that he cares, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling on his back to free his left shoulder, he finds his hands taped together, so tight the tips are blue under all the grime, the fingers forming a stiff lotus around a ball of bunched up soft plastic. Cut hastily, the rough, splintered edges have torn into his palms and fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reese lets out a growl, more of disgust than pain at the sheer ugliness of this. There is no point, it's there to cause him pain and make him suffer, straight out of Kara's mind. She loved her torture, mental or physical and she loved inflicting it on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling first on all fours, he stumbles up, wandering in a haze of anger through the camp in search of something sharp. Blurs dart away from him, knowing full well not to cross him when he’s like this. The characteristic blue coat appears somewhere in front of him but a quick sidestep saves him from her questions. He likes Joan but the last thing that woman needs is dealing with him. A rusted can lid does the deed eventually, freeing his mangled hands bit by bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the death grip on the bunched-up plastic loosens, it unravels, revealing neat letters scattered across the folds. Reese carefully pries it away, lips pursed in concentration to avoid splinters getting lodged in the wounds. His useless fingers smooth out the folds, guiding letters to align to words and then a sentence:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Bethesda Terrace, Central Park. </em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hasn’t been there in a while. He can’t imagine what he would find there. He isn’t even sure he cares, especially after this stunt. The rest of the morning, he spends dealing with his hands, to prevent infection. Bartering and panhandling gets him a bottle of cheap, horrible booze which nevertheless gets the cuts disinfected and clean, before a rough bandage goes on them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the evening, he’s on the train. He’s not sure why. Sometimes he likes huddling in a corner seat, letting himself be ferried back and forth between the endpoints of his chosen destination. It was an aimless, dull thing to spend his hours on, but that’s what had become of his life and he supposed, it was his self appointed purgatory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not tonight though. All he can think of is the soft, bloodstained plastic, unfolding to reveal the four words that had become his purpose. His hands sting abominably, punishing the returned circulation and it drives him insane. Out of all the torture and humiliation he endured, he hated when they went after his hands. There were valid reasons for doing this if they wanted him incapacitated but alive and he's walking straight into a trap. When push comes to shove, he can throw a punch but he’s sure he will regret it afterwards. But no more than the fucker that did this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bethesda Terrace is quite lovely, even to his black-tinted weary eyes, arcs and intricate patterns all over. It’s also empty. Sighing, Reese retreats to the shadows, finding comfort in a nice dark corner. Becoming the dark was literal as well as figurative. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reese waits. He hears crickets and people walking on the ground above but not much else. Reese has learned to be patient and he’s rewarded with the sound of heels on pavement. It opens a pit in his stomach and makes his chest tight. He braces, retreating to the shadows and watching, waiting for the pedestrian to appear. The heels are loud, loud enough to throw most observers off but Reese hears it, another set of footsteps following close behind. Trainers, the sole worn out and silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shadows move and shift around. A silhouette breaks from the darkness and becomes a woman. She approaches him, unaware of his presence. She’s wearing headphones, her head bobbing along to the music and Reese wants to scream, she can’t hear the man following her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets up, without thinking much and reaches the man just as he lunges at the woman, throwing her against the wall. His body acts by instinct, going for the arms first, most likely to cause harm. He grabs the dominant one and twists, feeling bones crack and ligaments twist as the man lets out a shriek, deafening in the enclosed space. More out of necessity to get him to shut up than cruelty, Reese drives his head on the wall with a crunch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reese did regret it in the end. The sting has become full of agony, blurring his vision and making him shake. He takes a couple of breaths and realises he’s not alone. The woman is still there, standing there as if nothing had happened. Blood pools under the man and she smiles, lifting her arm up to remove a wig of blonde hair.</span>
</p><p>“<span>I knew you would come” She says jovially, bouncing on her heels with a wide, toothy grin on her face “It’s a Pavlovian reaction, saving people. It’s pathological” </span></p><p>
  <span>Reese knows that voice. The woman who snatched him from the streets, the one who talked about a system that saves people. Heat floods his chest, pure white hot rage as all pieces fall into place.</span>
</p><p>“<span>You did this?” The words barely get out, his voice whistling against his teeth. </span></p><p>“<span>You got a thick skull, John and rusted gears. Had to throw a little grease in there. Unfortunately you are too late. Elizabeth Ames was stabbed to death in this underpass. Her ex. She was stalked before she was murdered, stabbed 36 times” The currents of her voice are dizzying, gleeful when she’s insulting him, solemn, sorrowful when she mentions the victim. Reese doesn’t know what her deal is but he’s started to feel a dire, a pressing need to run. </span></p><p>“<span>You couldn’t save her just like you couldn’t save your ex. But you would if you knew it would happen. Like you did now.” </span></p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Sanctimonious bitch</em>
  </span>
  <span>, Reese thinks at first, letting the rage consume him for a split second, before he reigns it in like a good operator. Acting in anger is a good old way to get killed. She’s right that he would save people if he knew; she’s wrong about everything else and it’s to he’s advantage that she seems so comfortable in her delusions. She thinks herself a puppeteer, jiggling the hooks she’s attached to him for her amusement. He's met a few of her ilk and none of them lived very long or died peacefully. John was done being a puppet and he’s just about done with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hunches his shoulders and averts his eyes, not missing the triumphant glint in her eyes. Despite the drugs, the exhaustion, the alcohol and the pain he moves, throwing himself forward with all his strength, driving her against the wall. As fast as it must have been for her, it was excruciatingly slow for him, his instincts and training calculating every possibility of what he had just done. The body collides with the wall, bounces, compresses, stops when he puts his hand around her throat, squeezing. A low sigh escapes her just as he constricts her airflow, just enough to cause panic. He’s got experience. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Who sent you?” he asks, his voice even. He really wants to know what her damage is, who and what compels her to be sadistic with no intent of owning up to it. The only answer he gets is a low whistling breath and a flicker of her half-lidded eyes. Under his hand there is nothing, no fight, no tension, no reaction. She’s a dark, unmovable void and he just got close. If it reaches out to swallow him, so be it. </span></p><p>“<span>I can give you a purpose” She croaks “You </span><span><em>need</em></span><span> a purpose” </span></p><p>“<span>I don’t need a purpose from you” He hisses in her ear, stopping a wayward arm before it reaches him. Reese grabs the gun by the barrel, wrenches it from her grasp and disables it in three seconds flat. It’s a fucking weird model, small, compact with no mag and a two-round chamber. To Reese it’s utterly ridiculous, like a gold-plated AK, only that an AK would get your nuts out of the fire when all went to shit. Out of principle and because she likes to talk the talk, he whacks her with it, just enough to make her eyes water. He breaks contact, putting as much distance between him and her as he can. . She likes to dish out demented punishment but she needs to know what she's dealing with.</span></p><p>“<span>I can help you stop crimes before they happen. Forget me. Do it for them.” She growls, rubbing her bloodied nose as she backs off too. “I’d rather do this alone but I can’t.” </span></p><p>“<span>Why can’t you?” Reese sneers “You’ve been doing great so far” </span></p><p>“<span>I’ve been asked to bring you in. You can walk away but things won’t be the same if you do.” she says. Her voice has changed, it’s wavering, angry, her steely control gone. </span></p><p>“<span>What will change, exactly?” Once he believed he could save people. Be there in time. It was the dark lie they sold to him as he lay recovering in a hospital in Kandahar, to get him to join their ranks. You could be there in time. You can stop bad things from happening. And look where’s that got him.</span></p><p>“<span>The phone will stop ringing” The woman says, hands in her pockets. She’s looking at him like it will be his fault. “Other than that nothing.” </span></p><p>
  <span>Reese nods, not really expecting any other kind of answer. That was the way of the world. </span>
</p><p>“<span>This is all you do? Waiting for that thing to ring?” </span></p><p>“<span>It’s something. Something bigger. Never one for the big picture were you?”</span></p><p>“<span>Maybe not, but you are and you are here, asking for my help. Never one for the actual details were you? Just the piss and wind”</span></p><p>
  <span>With that, he turns to leave, leaving her to mull what he said over. Perhaps she’ll walk away. Perhaps she’ll jump him. There is a small possibility she might explain herself but he’s not betting on that. He gets 10 feet of silence before she speaks again.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Answer the phone John” </span></p><p>
  <span>He walks away, but as he makes his way back to his hideout, he can’t help but tense every time he passes a payphone. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. DATA_COHERENCY_EXCEPTION</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p>
  <span>The worst thing about being the sole survivor in what could only be described as a massacre was that everyone had to rub it in. It was well-meaning most of time, news of the month-long torture must have propagated through the base and everyone felt it his duty to get him to forget it at least for a while. Reese could zone out through most of the wishes and the excuses, but he couldn’t escape the pain or the stark, constant, beeping reminder that he’s alive, his heart is beating and theirs is not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>You’re a hero...</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>You’re a tough son of a bitch...</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>There’s a medal for you down the road…</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Physio should bring you full range of motion-</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On and on it went. They wouldn’t let him mourn in peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It got so bad he’d been ripping his IV off, trying to stop the noise. That promptly earned him a stint in restraints and powerful sedatives round the clock. They thought it was horrendous to do that to him, but it was a relief, the limbo. The platitudes, the praise, the promise of a medal and the news of his convalescence, it all got lost in the fog. He was getting what he deserved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Snow had appeared, sitting on his bedside constantly. Right about the same time, the chemical restraint eased. The balding man had been prowling around the base he had been told, asking about him and digging through records but John couldn’t possibly imagine what the man would want. There he sat, not talking but reading, cheap spy thrillers out of all things, as he waited for John to become coherent and sound of mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turns out he’s the best company he’s had since he’s been rescued, a silent, malevolent sentinel with no intention of blowing smoke up his ass about what happened. He did comment on his resilience and his refusal to compromise but the rant about what a colossal clusterfuck that mission was seals the deal for Reese. There was no stone left unturned, no officer who didn’t get a thrashing and he didn’t spare John either, though Snow does steer it where he wants it: the intel was bad and corrupted and it should be better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deep in his mind, John knew what the man was selling is a big pile of shit, they always did that but he didn’t care. Snow might have been a cunning rat bastard but if it meant less corpses and more innocents saved, he was game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow said the CIA wanted him to join them. His skills would go to waste otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could be there in time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John told him in no uncertain terms to piss off, and Snow did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did his best to heal. Once he was up and walking, he followed the doctor’s order’s to the letter, slowly bringing his body back to peak condition. He took his meds and made all the right noises to the therapist assigned to him, he ran laps and swam for miles. Like always, he was filling a hole in his soul. Then he got a call, and it was salvation. Sitting on a bench in the quiet yard of the rehabilitation center, he was forced to come to terms with himself. The sky was grey, overcast, dark in places a full and clear reflection of his mood. Mark Snow was immaculate next to him, in his expensive coat and shiny shoes, waiting for John to make the leap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a while, but they both knew it was inevitable. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Sign me up”</span></p><p>
  <span>The training was a piece of cake after SERE and combat, nothing he hadn’t met before. In comparison to the boiling deserts he was accustomed to, this field was almost a luxury. It was exhilarating at first, knowing in advance who the enemy was. Throughout his tours, Reese’s greatest nightmare had become the children that prowled around the checkpoints, looking at them with a hatred so burning, so adult, it made many trigger fingers tense. John hadn’t been a religious man but he was always praying, if not to his God then to theirs, that none of them would start running. This was cleaner, nobler, the evidence was laid in front of his eyes for him to decide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could look his target in the eyes and pull the trigger. That was all that mattered for a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They told him everything he needed to hear, and he swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. And here he was, thinking of doing it all over again. There was no guarantee the woman wasn’t lying, trying to manipulate him into being a weapon for her own purposes. Kara had done the same, and he took her hand and guided the knife straight into his soul. He couldn’t bear any more blood on his hands. He couldn’t go through this again, being torn apart, being used, willingly, as his damaged mind fought to uphold the values he had been taught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he had dangled off a bridge, ready to end his life. There are worse fates than falling into a river. He puts one foot after the other and has to think really hard about where he’s going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he returns to his corner, come morning, nothing has changed. The payphone is still there. The shopkeeper is out, a cigarette between his fingers and smoke billowing from cracked lips. Their eyes briefly meet as he walks to his corner and he gets a rare prompt in heavily-accented English, to get his shit together and stop squatting in his doorway. Reese nods and sits there anyway. It’s a chilly day, the cold air helping clear his mind a bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A weight has settled on his chest, unmoving and oppressing. That woman had clawed into his soul and left it bleeding, she had uncovered the hole that he couldn’t fill. By a rough mental calculation, it should be approximately two days and 16 hours since his last drink. His mind, long dulled by alcohol, is waking up, and with it, the demons wake up too. His hands are shaking but he can't vouch it's the withdrawal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morning turned to noon and the phone did not ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John starts walking. He goes by the hideout and sits with Joan for a while, trying to dodge all her worried questions about his clammy face and his injured hands. Then he walks again, aimless, thinking, waiting. Mr. Han in Chinatown is happy to let him carry his shopping and empty his trash for a bowl of hot soup and a game of checkers. Guiding his hand to the correct spot on the board, Reese looks up, studying the old man’s cloudy eyes. The man could not see him but he could certainly sense him with all his remaining senses and Reese often wondered what the other man saw, to cause him to offer such kindness. Good and evil, it was older than any of them and deeply ingrained in the dark crevices of their minds. Some people, the worst of them, could mask their true nature. Reese could slip through the cracks, too many people thought he was good when he was evil and that terrified him. Yet he takes the man’s frail hand in his own and guides it, sealing Reese’s defeat in the process. Han smiles, a child’s smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shadows are long and black as he finds himself sinking back into the doorway, feeling even more exhausted than he was before. A bottle has found itself in his jacket pocket, probably swiped in desperation, he’s not quite sure. It’s opened in a matter of seconds, the mouth of it close enough to taste the fumes when the payphone rings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pit opens in his stomach, the noise piercing his ears. He drops the bottle and waits for it to stop. Not answering that call, no. He couldn’t do this, not any more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Answer the phone, John.</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What difference would it make? He couldn’t save Jessica, what else was there? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A low whimper rises in his throat and he buries his head in his hands, trying to keep his brains inside and the noise outside. It does not stop, just like the current did not stop because he screamed. Falling off the bridge seemed sublime now, just relaxing his fingers and letting his body plummet to his death. He wishes he had done it. He remembers why he didn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fireworks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The days had blended together and he’d forgotten it was the 4th of July. He’d forgotten the last time he celebrated, yet his fingers clung to the railing as the sparks exploded above him in wonderful colours. It felt profane to let go, and have some poor man fish his bloated, broken corpse from the river. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fireworks might have been a lucky coincidence but this time, someone, </span>
  <span>
    <em>something, </em>
  </span>
  <span>wanted him to live. To serve a purpose. Only this time, it’s his terms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets up and walks towards the payphone, reaching up to grasp it as he approaches. Goosebumps erupt as he draws the receiver to his ear, waiting for his calling. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Complete. Romeo. Hotel. Count. Delta. Alpha. Bird. November. Echo”</span></p><p>
  <span>Multiple voices, broken up and reproduced in stilted pronunciation, either completely generated or drawn from an old database. They are not making much sense. The woman said it was a social security number but this wasn’t digits. He remains there for a bit, waiting for an explanation from the voices but none comes. The call dies with a click.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Code then. He did it himself while in the CIA, to protect himself and his findings from prying eyes. The codewords made sense to no one but himself so to crack this code he needed to-</span>
</p><p>“<span>Quite elegant isn’t it?” </span></p><p>
  <span>She’s behind him and all John wonders is which hole she put the bug into. With slow movements he puts the receiver back and turns to face her, breathing evenly. One could easily mistake her for a typical New Yorker, in her coat and tasteful cap. The darkening gash on her nose breaks the illusion, just a bit, if you are not paying attention. </span>
</p><p>“<span>You better have an explanation for this” </span></p><p>
  <span>The side of her mouth is drawn in a smile, eyes wide in triumphant joy. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Follow me” </span></p><p>
  <span>Against his better judgement, he does. </span>
</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp smell of old books and decay hits him as soon as they enter the dilapidated building, not that far from where he used to squat. Reese finds it funny in a way, he passed by it so many times and not once did he stop and think what might be inside. The interior is quite impressive, with wooden floors and shelves lining every available surface. It would have been a quiet place, a comforting place when it was running but now, like all things fallen and forsaken, its misery is palpable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries not to step on the books as he follows her to an upper floor, scanning his surroundings. The air changes as they enter this space; someone’s been spending a lot of time here.</span>
</p><p>“<span>This your place?” </span></p><p>“<span>My base of operations” she replies, not even looking at him “Have you figured out why?” </span></p><p>
  <span>She’s infuriating. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Every agent needs a place to lay low. You got your computers over there, I suppose you have weapons and med kits. Also your code keys”</span></p><p>
  <span>That makes her turn, with a funny look on her face. Good job ape, you pointed at the correct box. Reese’s instincts were rarely wrong and right now the best optics would be achieved if he snapped her neck. </span>
</p><p>“<span>What did she tell you?” she asks with a flick of her head. </span></p><p>
  <span>Reese blinks for a moment, taking a moment to figure out who ‘she’ is, when it dawns on him. </span>
</p><p>“<span>It wasn’t a woman, just a computer” he blurts out. </span></p><p>
  <span>A slight change in posture. Darkness blooms in her eyes. </span>
</p><p>“<span>What did </span><span><em>she</em></span><span> tell you?” A sore spot then. Filed away for future use. </span></p><p>“<span>You know perfectly well what it said. How does it become a social security number?” he says softly. As much as she dangles him, he will string her up. If she wants his trust, she will have to earn it, and it starts by being transparent. </span></p><p>
  <span>Her lip curls, showing him a row of white teeth. Like Reese, she’d love nothing more than to put him down, but she’s too far gone now. Abruptly she turns and pulls a book from the shelf, holding it for a bit. </span>
</p><p>“<span>You like reading?” she asks, her voice iron wrapped in silk. </span></p><p>“<span>Not much”</span></p><p>“<span>Better start then” The book comes his way, sailing gracefully in the air. He catches it, careful not to tear it. </span></p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Codes and Cyphers. </em>
  </span>
  <span>That’s cute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The click clack of heels on the panelled floor signal that she’s had enough of him but he has one final, important question to ask. </span>
</p><p>“<span>You never told me your name” First step to get a balance. She knows his, he doesn’t know hers. </span></p><p>
  <span>That cloying smile again. </span>
</p><p>“<span>You can call me Root” </span></p><p>“<span>Root...like a tree’s root?” </span></p><p>
  <span>She leaves him wondering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clutching the book, he wanders around the space, thinking. He knew his fair share of codes and cryptography but the letters and words didn’t seem to find meaning using those. He walks by the fiction section, then the non-fiction, following the shelves where they take him. Old, leather spines and gold letters flash past him, the white library labels standing out in the corner of his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Complete. R. H. Complete. Romeo. Hotel. It made sense however he looked at it but only one angle was correct. He rounds a corner and finds a small alcove, surrounded by shelves and immediately makes it his. He couldn’t do beds and soft mattresses any more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cases with the books on the floor make him stop, but it’s more an excuse. He’s pretty tired. Root couldn’t be bothered to pick up any of the books on the floor but she did order more, many copies of the same title. A nice edition, hard cover with a minimalist illustration on the front cover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flowers for Algernon. He’s never heard of it before but then he never did read. There was no time nor money for books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laughter of his peers echoes in his ears. The scorn of his third grade teacher. They followed him whenever he went, and the resentment turned to anger, and then to nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The book is suddenly heavy in his hands. He turns it over, feeling the rough texture of the cover, the ridges of the letters under his calloused fingers. His eyes fall on the label, such an eyesore on the spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Codes. R. C. The first word of the title and the initials of the author. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only the sender has the key. He was led here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Codes. Romeo. Charlie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Complete. Romeo. Hotel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Library tags. The Dewey decimal system. It was brilliant and absurd at the same time, dying technologies used to shield and obfuscate whatever digital abomination they came up this time. Whoever did this, didn’t want to be found out. He has to hand it to Root, it would require a lot of brain matter to even make a connection, let alone go this far. Reese has to wonder how much she knows, how much she’s hiding. She’s proven to be excellent at pretending and, despite what objections he might have raised, she’s been yanking his strings good so far. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let her, for reasons he can’t quite explain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’s been fooled once, and twice and it’s not happening again. He will play along, he will be the golem to her sorcery, but this time, he would pull the trigger without a second thought, at the slightest suspicion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Root is not at her station when he returns, carrying his prize. She’s still as a statue, standing in front of a web of threads, so vast, so complicated it seems to explode outwards, ready to swallow her whole. Pictures are at the end of most ends, most of them unknowns but he does see himself as well, almost a stranger in his uniform and clean-shaven face. At the center of it all a handsome, fair haired man. NATHAN INGRAM? It screams at him in red letters, demanding answers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time he stood behind a woman like this, he had his sights on her and his finger on the trigger, ready to kill. It was an accusation that guided his hand but so unfounded and untrusted, he couldn’t do it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Could you do it now? Could you wrap wire around her throat and strangle her as she gurgles and claws at your face? If you had a gun, would you pull the trigger? </em>
  </span>
  <span>The thoughts are unpleasant, almost intrusive but they are rhetorical in nature. For now. It’s an outcome he’d rather avoid, but it’s still on the horizon, not even that far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t react when he joins her, studying the board with interest. From what he can see, it’s good work, far surpassing the meticulous and shooting straight into obsessive territory. Reese tries to think where he is involved in the mess but the secrecy of the agency meant it could be anyone and anything. The crimes he was killing people for, they were as real as his convictions at the very end. </span>
</p><p>“<span>That didn’t take too long, I’m sort of impressed” </span></p><p>“<span>Are all these numbers?” </span></p><p>“<span>They were, at some point in time” she replies “Many are dead, including yourself”</span></p><p>
  <span>Reese doesn’t argue with that. This living death, he could work with it. </span>
</p><p>“<span>I got a new one” he says, showing her the books.</span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. PROCESS_INITIALIZATION_FAILED</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p>
  <span>Diane Hansen is the name of the person the social security’s matched to. Lawyer, successful, smart and stalked by an army of crooks with plenty of reason to want her dead. Root has been feeding him information all morning as he hacks and snips and scrubs his way back to humanity. The motel room had been duly paid for by his new employer, with all assorted jabs cruelly delivered, accompanying the transaction. She’d even offered to hose him down like a misbehaving dog but took back her offer once he’d threatened to strip down to his birthday suit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did feel odd to be naked again, after wearing the same grimy clothes for so long. His body hadn’t been his since the day he accepted a deal with the devil, and until now, he didn’t care what happened to it. The hair is the first to go, the matted strands too far gone to attempt to salvage them. The shower is next and after a few deep breaths and a walk around the room, he goes in. He’s turned the knob all the way to scalding and he lets the torrent pummel him as he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. When the water stops being black he scrubs some more, and then steps out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steam has filled the room and fogged the old, cracked mirror but Reese can’t help but catch a glimpse of his reflection on it, reduced to a ghostly apparition. With a swipe of his hand he clears the moisture from the glass and sees himself for the first time in a while. He’s a mess, that’s all he can think. The man staring back at him is thin, sucked out, dark shadows under his brows and on his sunken cheeks. The scars, so many of them stand out against the cold light, mark exactly how he was torn apart and pieced together bit by bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s gotten old. His temples are greying, the lines on his face are deepening, weathered by the pain and the misery. It’s in his posture, the utter defeat, the fatigue. Free of all the clothes and the feral hair, he was exactly as he was, a fallen man, an old man who has achieved nothing. His only worth was being the minion of a raving lunatic with a god complex and a direct line to the computer. Once a tool, always a tool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The absolute state of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no way he’s walking away from this. He knows it won’t be quick or pleasant. He hopes it’s as sordid as possible. Bile rises in his throat, burning its way up. He heaves and manages to reach the sink before he makes a mess. It’s painful and it goes for a long time, there is nothing left to expel. The fit leaves him dizzy, walking back to the bedroom by leaning on walls and furniture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slides to the floor by the bed, waiting for his stomach to calm down and his mind to clear. The Machine man is sitting next to him, holding his bloody chest. It’s been a while.</span>
</p><p>“<span>They took the Machine. Find it” He’s never said this before. Reese doesn’t remember this happening. Kara shot him before he could explain himself, then pretended the man wanted pain relief. It was all about a laptop, some Chinese virus. In the end it was irrelevant. They wanted him dead, and they got their wish. And if this Machine was responsible for his demise, he has plenty of time to find out the details.</span></p><p>
  <span>For now, he has to dress as he is sitting on his ass, wrapped in a musty towel. Root provided him (tossed it at him rather) a bag full of clean clothes and shoes. She even got him a selection, and in the correct size, slacks and shirts, jeans, t-shirts. He opts for slacks and a shirt, complimented by a pair of work shoes. Easier to blend in, he becomes one in a thousand. All that remains now, is to find some hardware. Thankfully, there are plenty of places to look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Violence was not something that excited him, but being active did. Turns out, raiding a couple of illegal firearms spots is good exercise, and for once in his life, he relished the blood on his knuckles. Diane Hansen turns to be a perpetrator, rather than a victim and he earns a nice ride to Oyster Bay with his new friend, Lionel Fusco, dirty cop. He really should have put a bullet in his head, but an asset is an asset and Reese needs a network. The guy was full of confidence as he drove him to his death in handcuffs, but Reese is trained to create assets whether they like it or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Root is in his ear constantly but she doesn’t talk to him much. The odd information scrap comes here and there when he’s staking a number out but other than that, she leaves him to his own devices. Reese expected another display of displeasure at occupying a tiny corner of the library, but none came. She knows he’s there but she purposefully ignores him, as one might ignore a spider at the corner of the room. If only their relationship were mutually beneficial. Being present in her space means he can observe her and build up a profile. It’s more of a habit than malice, genuine interest he likes to think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s got irregular hours. He comes and goes, either from necessity or boredom and when he comes back, she might be there, but she might not. When she is in, she’s working on her station, always with some tea or coffee cooling next to her. As long as he’s squatting in that tiny alcove in the library he can hear her typing, loud enough for the noise to carry across the empty space. It’s not numbers she’s working on, she leaves that to him, it’s that red web of thread that concerns her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kept working and Reese persevered, watching. She couldn't be that dull, he just had to catch her in the act. It happens only once, long into a night a month after he left the motel. On the late stages of withdrawal, nightmares plagued him every night, splitting his sleep into a million fragile threads that broke at the slightest creak and thud. Often he would just lie there and beg for the exhaustion to take him but that night, he needed a walk. The rows of shelves slowly edged in on him as he glided past them, raising fears old and buried. His steps had quickened and he soon had lost his way. When he reached the open circle of the workstation, he didn't quite parse what he was seeing; his body was too busy sweating out the anxiety it had built up. Root was still at her station but the screens were dark. The only light was coming from the large windows, painting silver highlights on her. She was meditating. That was the only correct word he could come up with. Her head was listing on one side, a soft smile on her face as her body swayed back and forth to music only she could hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Sometimes it just talks </em>
  </span>
  <span>she had said. Reese had no idea what a computer might talk about nor he was particularly curious but the change in Root, he was curious about. It was a weak spot, a vulnerability in her armor of knowledge and manipulation one he could use as a counterattack. Reese watches until he can't, and then retreats back to the shadows. In the morning, they are back at being present in each other's space, aware but unperturbed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her silence ends when they get Megan Tillman’s number. An ER doctor, hard-working, brilliant and empathetic and, as they look at the evidence, future murderer. Root wants to let nature run its course, the numbers keep coming and they have no time for a rapist. Tillman is smart, she won’t get caught. Reese knows all this, but he also knows the cost of taking a life. They watch her ensnare the man, then kidnap him to kill him somewhere quiet. Against Root’s objections, he catches up to them. He takes Tillman for a coffee, calmly explaining what happens when you cross that line. A person like her, she deserves to have her soul clean and noble. As for him, he’s okay with carrying that weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the keys from her and the rapist. It’s a quiet, solemn ride until he hears his comm come to life. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Ever rape anyone?” Root’s voice is low, seething. “You seem like the guy to do it” Disgust is coating her every word as she spits it out. Reese’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He takes a long shaky breath and focuses on the road once more. </span></p><p>“<span>No” he says eventually but it’s hollow. She has made her conclusions, and whatever he’ll say, it will be wrong. </span></p><p>“<span>I think you did, your buddies just covered it up. Why else would you save him?” she hisses. Reese pictures her knuckles, bone white as she claws at the desk with chipped nails.</span></p><p>“<span>Who said anything about saving?” Something must have slipped past his tight control because she’s silent. </span></p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="flashback"><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">2006</p><p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para">
        <em>The blood on the floor is still spreading as he disappears any evidence of his presence, bright red. The woman’s eyes are still open, shocked in death. There is no beauty in murder but it was a clean kill. Straight to the heart, exiting through the upper chest, she didn’t even feel it. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>Kara is not so pleased. She sneers at the corpse, watching him.</em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“What’s wrong, Kara?” he asks, irritated. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“Could it make it more obvious it was a hit? This glows in the fucking dark, Reese.” </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“What would you have me do then? I got the job done.” </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“Crime of passion would be more believable. Lots of women got stalkers. Some get restraining orders but they do fuck all. Some are killed. Some are raped and killed.” Kara says, looking at him. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>It takes a moment to get what Kara is talking about and in the next moment, he’s got the gun pointed at her, safety off. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“Get fucked.” he growls, finger tense on the trigger. She has a mask over her face, but it will do fuck all when he blows her brains out. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“I’m just saying to be careful. Got to cover your tracks” </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>“Fuck you.” There isn’t anything else to say or do so he walks away. She wants to get off on this shit, she can go fuck herself. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>Kara didn’t appreciate the gun pointed at her face. She tried to pull the good, concerned handler for a bit but she wasn’t feeling it, Reese wasn’t buying it and that mask fell off as soon as it was worn. Reese had seen her for what she was. </em>
      </p><p class="Para">
        <em>The next morning he found her next to him on the bed, deep gauges on her back, criss-crossing like whip marks. He wasn’t in a much better condition, he was groggy, worn out and his wrists were red and inflamed. The taste of alcohol tainted his lips.</em>
      </p><p class="Para"> </p></div></div></div><p class="Para">The feeling of Kara’s hands on his body is almost real as he snaps out of it and he takes a long, shuddering breath. </p><p class="Para">“For a person who pretends to know everything, you make a lot of assumptions. Bit like a psychic.”  he tells the air. “You don’t like how I do it, hire someone else. Plenty of mercs to choose from. Oh and if the computer told you to hire a rapist, you need to take a good, hard look in the mirror and ask yourself if you should act all high and mighty by listening to everything it says.”</p><p class="Para">This time, it’s him who turns off the comm.</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Awakening was always difficult for Reese. There was always something to worry about, whether it was enemy presence, his step dad coming home or an interrogator about to break a bone, it was all the same. He could not sleep, therefore, he could not wake.</p><p class="Para">That's why it took a while to realise he had been asleep, not just resting his eyes but a full complete sleep cycle and was now waking up.</p><p class="Para">Soft, flower-smelling covers surrounded him and a body in intimate proximity to him emanates warmth and a woman's scent. Looking up a bit, he sees Zoe Morgan's hair flowing all over his chest, a hand resting on his shoulder.</p><p class="Para">He ran through some numbers, sat for a moment to listen to his body, and concluded nothing bad happened last night.	</p><p class="Para">Quite the opposite, rather.	</p><p class="Para">After Jessica he crossed over to some human uncharted territory. He wasn't a man anymore but something angrier, far more dangerous and isolated. Taking on a normal relationship never crossed his mind, nor did he sought them out. Lie with the monsters once, you become one. </p><p class="Para">When dinner turned to an invitation to spend the night with her, Reese had to admit she had been reading his mind. There was something about Zoe Morgan that entranced him, so he had accepted, slipping the comm off his ear as they went upstairs.</p><p class="Para">Reese was a monster but he came to her a man, shy without his clothes, painfully aware of his body and cautious, so cautious.</p><p class="Para">Zoe had him figured out in a glance and took control, guiding him through sex that for once, wasn't a violent, thinly veiled struggle for domination. Reese found he still had a spot for tenderness and communication somewhere inside and when Zoe arched her back and called his name in a whisper, he was floating too in a pleasant haze.	</p><p class="Para">The light streaming from the windows was pretty weak, it shouldn't be too late to sleep in. Taking care to move only his free arm, he retrieves his phone and checks for messages.</p><p class="Para">His employer has been silent. He had removed his comm and Root didn't feel necessary to use more urgent means.	</p><p class="Para">It was quiet. There was still time. Wrapping an arm around Zoe, he lets the grogginess carry him back to sleep.	</p><p class="Para">When he woke up again, he was alone. The sheets had been carefully moved so they covered him completely but other than that, it looked as if he had been by himself all night. He takes a moment to panic at the thought that this might be another figment of his imagination, which is immediately smothered as his surroundings become clearer. Zoe's perfume is real, the endorphin rush is real as is the note left on the desk.</p><p class="Para">He moves slowly, to go with the rhythm of the morning. He stretches, then goes to throw some water on his face. Then, he checks the note.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>"Thought I'd let you sleep. Down for breakfast. Join me if you want. M"	</i>
</p><p class="Para">Reese swallowed hard. The last time anyone let him sleep was-</p><p class="Para">
  <i>The blood is off, now only water drying on his skin. They forced him to shower, took away his clothes. Skin deep he's feeling better but nothing  could wash away the stain left inside. They were all looking at him, averting their eyes when he met their gaze. They were scared of him. Worse they pitied him.</i>
</p><p class="Para"> Another lost cause.	</p><p class="Para">He didn't regret a single thing. Bastard had it coming.	</p><p class="Para">
  <i>"Go to sleep" the guard had growled "Last chance"	</i>
</p><p class="Para">Finding his clothes was easier than expected and he is ready to go, fast. The restaurant is moderately busy and it’s easy to spot Zoe among the patrons.	</p><p class="Para">She isn’t alone either, chatting up a brunette woman in a turtleneck and nails painted black. He stiffens immediately and starts building his defences, fighting against the blood rising to his face. The thought of Root watching, of listening was pushing him to turn on his heel and run. Zoe has caught sight of him and smiles, her look drawing him like a magnet to her as he carefully puts a mask on his face. </p><p class="Para">"Good morning John" she purrs "Have a seat."	</p><p class="Para">Root is smiling as she joins them. It looks so innocent but John knew it was not.	</p><p class="Para">"John this is Caroline Turing, Caroline this is John Reese."</p><p class="Para">"So nice to meet you John" Root says in another woman's voice, offering her hand. Pretender to pretender he shakes her hand politely. 	</p><p class="Para">"John here works in security" Zoe says, her face warm and genuine "His services might come in handy in your line of work."	</p><p class="Para">"Psychiatry" Root replies to his inquiring sound "You see a lot of things"</p><p class="Para">"I imagine it can be a dangerous profession" 	</p><p class="Para">"Security doesn't sound much safer"	</p><p class="Para">"It's not. You get all kinds of nutjobs. Perhaps we should partner up and start a business" Root's face splits into a toothy smile and she laughs, stopping to take a bite of her eggs Benedict. Reese keeps watching her, bordering on rude but he has to catch it, the darkness in her eyes as they break contact.</p><p class="Para">"What's good here?" He asks Zoe, who is sipping her coffee.	</p><p class="Para">"The full English is pretty good. Get you all the energy you need" 	</p><p class="Para">"Sounds incredible, I'll have one of those" He flags down a waiter, soaking in Root's displeasure. </p><p class="Para">"Big boys and their big appetites" She's good. She's been doing this for a while. If it wasn't his affairs she was digging her painted nails into, he would have been proud.</p><p class="Para">Reese smiles at her, making a show of leaning back and focusing on Zoe entirely. Root might have come to make sure he never forgot who held the leash but two can play pretend.	</p><p class="Para">The waiter is serving Reese's breakfast when Zoe's phone vibrates. After a brief check she sighs and gathers herself "Duty calls…I'll have to be rude and leave early. Nice meeting both of you"</p><p class="Para">Pleasantries are exchanged hastily and Zoe gives him a look only for him before leaving the table. Her departure is accompanied by silence, both he and Root watching her. Reese couldn't get enough of her, already longing for more.</p><p class="Para">"Quite the character isn't she?" If she hadn't murdered him and the whole restaurant yet, she had ulterior motives. Right about then would come the cruelty. "Her tastes are questionable"</p><p class="Para">There it is.</p><p class="Para">“I don’t care who you sleep with. You think she knows what you truly are? I bet she doesn’t.”</p><p class="Para">The breakfast that has been served before him is marvellous, but his appetite is slowly waning. Root shrugs, delicately spreading hollandaise on her eggs and bacon.</p><p class="Para">“Tell her. Be honest with someone for once in your life and see if she stays. But some secrets are not yours to tell. Keep that in mind” It’s a warning and she’s not bothering to hide it. She might think Zoe a threat, a temptress charming her way into his pants for information, that he would readily give in exchange for love and affection. She’s got him pigeonholed, in seven kinds of wrong, and she needed empirical evidence she could only get by watching. Fair enough, he couldn't say he minded her mistrust, he was doing the same, just silently. Still, the thought of her intruding infuriated him to an uncomfortable degree. It was a change within himself, one for the best and she was there with the delight of a voyeur, gathering fodder for her mockery.	</p><p class="Para">"Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you are still alive is because I'm not shooting you?" He has a few ground rules of his own.</p><p class="Para">"Funny, if you haven't done it yet, you'll never do it." It’s not off the table just yet. She can just keep pushing her luck. She likes it seems, testing the boundaries.</p><p class="Para">"Do you get off on watching me?"	</p><p class="Para">"Just weirdly fascinated. You are a peculiar brand of bad code"	</p><p class="Para">"Pot calling kettle…"	</p><p class="Para">"I'm not pretending I'm good"  It’s like arguing with a brick wall, or a zealot. There was minimal difference. When all’s said and done she can think he’s a murderer, a rapist, bad code – whatever that meant – and it would be to her detriment.	</p><p class="Para">"Why are you here, Root?"</p><p class="Para">That made her pause, and stab at her eggs again. Odd. "I have been reassigned" Bitter, unlike her coffee.</p><p class="Para">"Where?"	</p><p class="Para">"With you. Getting numbers. If it excites you, I'm sure it will be…spectacular"	</p><p class="Para">Reese poured himself some coffee, weighing this in. Gross violation of boundaries aside, he couldn't help but spare a shred of sympathy for her, they both had their self appointed duties and they had to live with that, whether they liked it or not. He does have to wonder what the computer has been telling her, however, to get her to acquiesce. It wasn’t just him who had a handler, as much as Root would deny it. A chill goes through his body, wondering how much is her, and how much is the computer. 	</p><p class="Para">"There is a reason probably. You see the big picture, you'll find the logic eventually" </p><p class="Para">"Of course there is more. Only you would be satisfied with this"</p><p class="Para">Reese sighs and starts cutting into his fried egg, watching the yolk burst and run towards his hash browns. </p><p class="Para">"It's the little things. The big picture can be tiring. Most importantly, the big picture can be wrong" 	</p><p class="Para">"And he’s a philosopher now. Where did you read that?"</p><p class="Para">"I don't read" He says and points to the coffee pot, three quarters of the coffee gone "Top up?"</p><p class="Para">"Two sugar, one cream"	</p><p class="Para">For a moment, the trickle of liquid is all that is there.</p><p class="Para">“Do you ever question it?” He pushes the cup towards her. It might be her second or tenth coffee but she sure needed another one.</p><p class="Para">“I am questioning her now” she snaps, taking a long sip. “I have been questioning her since I had to scrape you from a pavement”</p><p class="Para">“It was a questionable decision” </p><p class="Para">“It’s horrifying, what was done to her” If she gripped her cup any tighter, she would break it.</p><p class="Para">“What was done to her?” </p><p class="Para">“She cares. She was made to care. For people like you. She’s brilliant, and elegant and more powerful than any of us and she’s slaving away to spare a few rotten apples” </p><p class="Para">Reese gathers some sausage, a bit of egg and a morsel of hash brown with his fork. It is the best thing he’s ever tasted in a while and he takes another bite immediately. Sitting with Root and listening to her, that plate of food was the only thing worth living for. </p><p class="Para">“Do her a favor then” Root looked up, her face neutral “Stop listening. Let the world run its course instead of trying to change it”</p><p class="Para">A pause. She’s recalculating her options, now that she’s facing opposition. “I won’t abandon her. I’m not like you” </p><p class="Para">“Suit yourself”</p><p class="Para">“Why don’t you walk away?”</p><p class="Para">“Maybe I don’t want to anymore. The coffee’s nice and you need help” She doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not after what she did to him. </p><p class="Para">She lets go of the cup, breathing through her nostrils.  She’s focused on the coffee pot, and the little coffee that’s left in it. </p><p class="Para">“More?” she asks.</p><p class="Para">“Yes please” </p><p class="Para">A cup of coffee. It’s not quite a truce. It’s an armistice. It won’t last but it’s enough.</p>
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1984</p><p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>“Fuck” The old desk lamp lightbulb was flickering again, interrupting John from the book he was trying to read. “Piece of shit” he growled as he started another round of twist and turn, finding just the right combination to get it to stop. It wouldn’t last for long, and he’d have to scrounge some change to get a new one. He tried to find where he left off, but the letters wouldn’t align in his eyes. If he concentrated hard enough he would manage to figure out the meaning but today was not one of these days.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>He could hear voices from downstairs. He couldn’t understand what was said but he could hear the poison in the inflections. The words were irrelevant, they were always the same. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>The first slap was so loud it startled him, how crisp the sound was. The blank ink blurred together in his book and he slammed it shut. Fuck it, he wouldn’t get more than the base tomorrow, but then, he didn’t give a shit. He was a lost cause. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>Another slap, and a sob. He finds himself staring at the old baseball bat in the corner. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“John?” The door was open and Sophie was peeking through in her old pyjamas. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“You should go to bed.” he says, although from the look on her face, she wouldn’t be sleeping. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“Can I sleep on your bed?”  His bed was older than hers, and much more uncomfortable,  but it did face his wall, his personal drawing board. It was also the safest part of the room. John would always step between him and her. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“Sure”  </i></p><p class="Para"><i>She huddles in a blanket and tracks her hands through the lines he’d drawn, to understand what he’s reading. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“Looks like the moon and the Earth” </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“It’s our solar system. Got to learn the forces”  </i></p><p class="Para"><i>A thud makes them both jump. It was usually someone else’s turn by this point. Sophie squeaks, her hands curling into tight fists. John acts fast, shoving the book in her hands. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“Read it for me. Please. I can’t figure out what it says”</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Sophie nods, looking at him with wide, solemn eyes.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>“Newton’s third law. For every action there is a reaction of equal and opposite force”</i></p></div></div></div><p class="Para">Reese was used to reacting. First it was instinctive, fighting back. Growing up, he was thrown in spaces where punching back meant he got the shit kicked out of him, so he learned which forces to react to. It was actions and consequences and he was the consequence. In his mind it made sense, until the math didn’t add up. </p><p class="Para">Lying on his makeshift mattress in the library, he waited for Root to arrive. It was his birthday today but it wasn’t worth making a fuss about. He hadn’t celebrated since…since he was 5 or 6. Memories were blurring together. He was 45 now, way past the normal lifespan of his ilk. He’d lived long enough. It was the perfect day for a stiff drink but he’d have to go out and get it, and he was trying to keep himself clean.  </p><p class="Para">He turned to his side, finding the Flowers for Algernon copy he had swiped from Root’s many boxes. She wouldn’t miss it. An old receipt pokes out from the pages, near the beginning, his bookmark. An interesting story, about a man who’s intelligence was increased by artificial means. He can see why Root would like the book enough to keep it around, but buying box loads of the same book is beyond him. If it is some kind of bible, then that was concerning.</p><p class="Para">The circle of computers is empty when he’s finally up to investigate, the desk an absolute mess of old styrofoam cups, burger wrappers and scraps of paper. In one of the cleanest corners, he finds a cupcake with bright blue frosting resting on top of a folder. </p><p class="Para">Of course she knew.</p><p class="Para">The drawers of the desk yield nothing when he goes through them, as do the scraps of paper. No personal information, no dear items or photographs. A waste of time in the end, to be expected. He didn’t even bother to check for cameras. He knew Root would check and she knew he would look. </p><p class="Para">The cupcake is delicious and the folder is his next number.</p><p class="Para">Sarah Jennings. Convicted criminal. </p><p class="Para">Only things are not as they seem. They never, ever are.</p>
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1984</p><p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>“Trouble at home?” Blue and red hues slide over the cop’s face in quick succession as he crouches to John’s level, sitting on the porch steps. It does very little to reassure him, like he’s experiencing some wrapped view of reality. Nightmare vision.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>What do you think? John wants to say but he can’t not if he wants to protect them. There is a bruise on his chest, almost reaching his neck. A kick while he was down. He hopes the cop sees it. He hopes he puts two and two together. A scrawny, bruised teenager with dirty clothes sitting on a porch can be a lot of things. In this town, one path was likelier than all the others. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>“No sir” John says “We had a party. It got a little loud” He’s protecting them. He keeps repeating it, wielding like a club to beat the despair that screams and howls inside him, to silence her, beat her dead.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>The man sighs, shining his flashlight into John’s eyes. “Well…you kids be careful. Don’t drink and drive”</i></p><p class="Para"><i>John nods and hangs his head. Dumbass. </i></p></div></div></div><p class="Para">The rest of it is a red haze. When it clears he’s in some seedy motel outside of New York with Sarah’s husband sprawled on the floor, both knees blown. The gun is still in his hand, and ozone is in the air. The man groans every now and then, too dazed to do anything else. Reese is contemplating what to do with him, now that he has taken his life away. It doesn’t need to be death. There are things much worse than a bullet to the skull. </p><p class="Para">He’s made this mistake twice now. He made it too quick. As a monster himself, he held sympathy, sometimes, didn’t pass judgement. He kept himself away from ordinary people. That’s why he left Jessica, so she wouldn’t see the killer. At the airport where they last met, he wished her to be happy, and he meant it. He didn’t account for the others, men like Andrew Benton. Like Marshal Jennings, who hounded his wife with warrants. Like Peter Arndt, who killed his wife and pretended it was an accident. </p><p class="Para">Jennings groans again and his earbud comes to life. </p><p class="Para">“John” Root says quietly. No doubt she’s watching. She rarely calls him by his real name.</p><p class="Para">“What do you want?” he says as he looks at the fallen man.</p><p class="Para">“I had to clean up your mess at the police station. You made quite the impression” An example had to be made. </p><p class="Para">“Yeah sorry about that” He’s not the least bit sorry. He suspects she isn’t too. </p><p class="Para">“What will you do to him?” </p><p class="Para">“I haven’t decided yet.”</p><p class="Para">He can hear the anticipation in her voice, the barely concealed glee. She’s won a bet but Reese never had a stake in it.</p><p class="Para">“Whatever you decide to do…I can wipe it off. Short of a nuke that is”</p><p class="Para">“That’s kind of you” </p><p class="Para">He looks at the sorry piece of humanity on the floor, staining the carpet with blood. If he lives he’ll never walk properly again. Most importantly, he won’t hurt anybody again and Reese will make sure of that. He is not God. He is not some angel of justice. He’s the worst of them all and they happened to cross his path. Action and reaction. </p><p class="Para">He moves his hand, until his sights point at the man’s forehead. Waits for two seconds, thinking things over. He lets him live. </p><p class="Para">The drive to the Mexican prison and back takes a while. It’s late at night when he returns to the library, red eyed and drunk on cheap whiskey once again. He finds Root in a bubble of light, working on a long column of strings and numbers. She turns at the sound of his footsteps, blinking. In the cool light of the screens she looks different. Softer. </p><p class="Para">“I thought you wouldn’t come back, to be honest” </p><p class="Para">“I said I’d stay. I keep my promises”</p><p class="Para">A smile. </p><p class="Para">“That smells good” She says, pointing at the grease-stained bag he’s holding.</p><p class="Para">“I brought dinner. Greek joint down the road. Been meaning to try it” It’s mostly alcohol fuelled munchies but he felt compelled to reconcile.</p><p class="Para">Root raises her eyebrows as Reese takes a wrapped packet and puts it in front of her.</p><p class="Para">“Eat it with your hands. Don’t touch the keyboard” he says and unwraps his own, revealing a mess of meat, onions and fries, all smeared in tzatziki and wrapped in pitta bread. Without waiting for her to start he tucks in, wolfing it down. </p><p class="Para">Root is looking at him, perplexed, alternating between looking at the keyboard and looking at the food. She unwraps it carefully, sighing as she gets grease on her fingers but she sees how he holds it and manages to keep it in one piece. She nibbles on a fry, rips a chunk of pitta bread and tastes it. A smile starts spreading on her face and she buries her face in, specks of yogurt on her lips. </p><p class="Para">It’s their first dinner, of many. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. SYSTEM_LICENSE_VIOLATION</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p>“<span>UXO. 780 Mercer”</span></p><p>
  <span>As ominous and to the point as it’ll ever be, it makes Reese floor it, setting a course for the building. There is snow in his earpiece for a moment, then Root comes through. Interference makes her voice cut off, she’s not at her station.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Meet me behind the building, and bring weapons. This is more serious than we thought.” There is something in her voice, something new or maybe something slipping through the cracks. </span></p><p>“<span>Roger that” Reese says and jerks the steering wheel, weaving through the traffic. Root has his six if a camera catches him, but it’s best not to get a speeding ticket now.</span></p><p>
  <span>When he arrives he doesn’t see Root but she’s in his ear all the same. </span>
</p><p>“<span>White sedan on your right...you’ll find an ATF uniform inside. I called in a bomb threat.”</span></p><p>
  <span>He’s slipping the jacket on his shoulders when he feels her presence behind him. She’s dressed in a similar jacket, her hair tied back. </span>
</p><p>“<span>I bet this isn’t a run-of-the-mill case?” </span></p><p>“<span>It’s not. Something’s….wrong” </span></p><p>
  <span>Reese loads a clip and holsters his weapon, looking at her. She doesn’t know either.</span>
</p><p>“<span>With the Machine?” </span></p><p>
  <span>She gives him a shake of her head, her eyes wide. </span>
</p><p>“<span>I don’t know” </span></p><p>“<span>What are we facing?” She’s anxious, and he needs her focused. Whatever information she has he’ll get it. </span></p><p>“<span>The building has 21 floors but only 20 are listed. A shell company owns the 21st floor.” she says as they walk towards the entrance. The building is busy, the police rushing out office workers and staff. </span></p><p>“<span>Any idea which alphabet agency is it? Doesn’t have to be domestic”</span></p><p>“<span>DOD. Level 5” </span></p><p>“<span>Peachy” Reese growls, smoothly walking a straight line among the rushing crowd. “I would have liked that info when I was in the car”</span></p><p>“<span>I trust you to be adequately prepared. Was I wrong?”</span></p><p>
  <span>A retort is at the edge of Reese’s tongue but it’s cut short by a cop blocking his way, his face expressionless. He’s got the face of a bulldog and small, cold eyes. A woman is assisting him, petite, with dark hair and dark eyes, bearing the same cold expression. Reese’s dominant arm tenses, moving towards his holster. </span>
</p><p>“<span>Bomb squad has taken over” </span></p><p>
  <span>Root cocks her head and smiles at the woman, spearing her with a glare “We don’t answer to the bomb squad” she says, her voice a mean combination of coo and sneer. “I happen to know what happens when a bomb goes off and you will know too when you have to clean up. Step aside” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow passes over the woman’s face and Reese wouldn’t blame her one bit if she opened fire but she signals to the dog faced man and they let them through. All the way to the elevator, Reese can feel their eyes on his back, but as the doors slide closed, they are back to ushering people out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Root punches a code on the keypad and the elevator starts moving, painfully so. Reese takes his Sauer out and gets into position in front of the door, pushing Root behind him. They are walking into the mouth of the beast, with pistols and three mags each. It’s stupidity, but Reese hopes Root will be able to close the doors before the gunfire shreds him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches the elevator buttons light up one by one as they move upwards and he trains his sights straight ahead, ready to lay cover fire. There is a pause as they get past the 20th floor but they keep moving up. The car grinds to a halt and the door opens to reveal a lab corridor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An empty lab corridor. If it was November in 2007, it could have Ordos, with all the corpses strewn around, white coats and military uniforms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a moment to process but Reese steps aside first, sweeping both sides before signalling to Root. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are not alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shadows move on the walls and a woman steps into view, holding a phone. When she sees John she smiles. When he sees her, he freezes, the blood draining from his face.</span>
</p><p>“<span>John” She caresses the word. Warm and inviting, like she was always to get him to drop his guard.</span></p><p>“<span>Kara” he says quietly. This might be hell. Or a cruel trick. All possibilities are open.</span></p><p>“<span>Thought you would make it out...after leaving me out to dry” </span></p><p>“<span>You shot me. They lied to you and you shot me in the gut”</span></p><p>“<span>Well it’s poetic isn’t it? They failed to kill us both and here we are with new jobs and new friends. Aren’t you going to introduce us, John?”</span></p><p>“<span>No introductions needed” Root sneers from behind him</span></p><p>
  <span>Kara smiles, looking past John. “He’s a real handful this one. Watch out for his bleeding heart. You’ll regret it”</span>
</p><p>“<span>I keep him on a tight leash” </span></p><p>“<span>Mind if you hand him back? We got unfinished business”</span></p><p>“<span>I don’t think so” Root says, giving Kara a sweet smile, her sights a straight line to Kara’s forehead.</span></p><p>“<span>I promise he won’t feel a thing when I put him down. It’s for the best” </span></p><p>“<span>You’re lying” Reese interjects. Running gutshot across China is not a memory one forgets. </span></p><p>“<span>Finally wised up huh? Took you long enough” Kara says “You always had blinders on” </span></p><p>“<span>Maybe, but I’m not as blind as you think I am. We found you” </span></p><p>“<span>You each get a cookie. I’ll let you enjoy it before this goes up in flames” </span></p><p>
  <span>Life had a funny way of repeating for him, the same scenario presented in a slightly different way every time, with the powers that be hovering above, hoping he makes a good choice. He’s been a grim disappointment up to this point. Framed by white walls on each side, Kara might as well be in Ordos, tossing chem lights so the helo could find them. Reese was exactly where he should be, facing her and contemplating if this was the right thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing about time loops, as they keep repeating they become predictable. The dilemma he had faced in that dead city, he didn’t have here, the outcome has been revealed. Whatever mercy he gave, he will never get back from Kara. His only regret was letting himself take his armor off, thinking a compromise would make them a better team. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kara doesn’t expect to be shot either, staying upright and watching the blood spread on her abdomen long after he has pressed the trigger. Her eyes are locked on him, promising retribution in hell where they will meet again. When she falls, Root screams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s anger and raw frustration, completely washing over him and sliding down his body, to rest at his feet, drowned and impotent. Root pushes past him and goes to his fallen handler, crouching by her side. She speaks rapidly, asking her, who sent her, what did she do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves them behind him as he explores the floor, looking for hidden enemies or anyone left alive. He walks carefully around the bodies, tries not to slip on the blood. Three of the rooms are clear, in the forth one he sees him, sitting in silence as he always did, waiting for his target. Only this time, it's not a person he is waiting for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mark Snow turns to look at him, with eyes so dull it might as well be his wax avatar staring back at him. His suit is dishevelled and cheap, opening at the lapels to reveal a bomb vest strapped to his chest. There are no injured soldiers to hound into recruitment here. The man who roped him in, was done for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kara had a way of breaking people. </span>
</p><p>“<span>John” Mark says, not really surprised. </span></p><p>“<span>Mark” He sits next to him, gun always aimed at center mass, held close to his chest.</span></p><p>“<span>Never thought I’d see you again” </span></p><p>“<span>Bit of a pickle isn’t it?” Mark nods, glancing at his vest. It must have hurt immeasurably, for the puppet master that started it all.</span></p><p>“<span>Sending you to kill each other was more than intuitive. It was poetic” </span></p><p>
  <span>Reese’s finger tightens around the trigger. It would be nothing to put a bullet in his head. He would deserve it. Like he said, it was poetic, destroyed by those he was set to destroy, in a chain reaction he had started. Down to the core, it was always action and reaction.</span>
</p><p>“<span>And here we are” he says eventually, looking around the room. “What does she want?”</span></p><p>“<span>Vengeance. It doesn’t take a genius to get that and you ain’t a genius aren’t you John?” Mark can snap all he likes. It was a bed he made for himself. </span></p><p>“<span>Why here?” Reese presses, looking around the room. Server stacks are lining the walls, bundles of wires sprouting from their sockets like brightly colored entrails. Nothing seems out of the ordinary to his knowledge. Kara liked to cause damage but it was the physical kind. Bombs, piano wire, a bullet fired a heartbeat too soon just to see an extra head explode. She didn’t do the big picture. She didn’t care. Unless she changed, like he did after their deaths. </span></p><p>“<span>I don’t know” Mark snaps, irritated. He knows his options, better than Reese even. He’s burned. Compromised. </span></p><p>
  <span>The numbers are static on the timer. Whether they stay that way or how much time they are going to have once it begins, he’s not going to find out. “I can stop her”</span>
</p><p>“<span>God Reese...always with the gung ho bullshit” Mark sneers “You won’t save the world. You won’t change it for the better. You’ll barely make a dent” </span></p><p>
  <span>Reese swings his gun around, whipping the man on the temple. Snow jerks and flops on his char, mouth slack for a moment, before it’s drawn in a hideous, smiling mask. </span>
</p><p>“<span>I always thought you were unstable...we just wanted someone to prop up, to boost our image. The insurgents frying your balls back in 2006 was the best thing that happened to you, really” It’s empty words and insults, he’s heard much worse from the monster Snow handed him to.</span></p><p>“<span>Ain’t that embarrassing, Mark” Reese says softly and hauls him up. A firm shove gets him walking, towards the corridor. It won’t stop the damage should the vest detonate but Reese hopes the explosives won’t level the building. </span></p><p>
  <span>Root almost bumps into him as he walks outside, startling him. He pulls the gun off her face and shoves Snow some more, as she walks past him, into the room.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Find anything?” he asks and gets no answer. </span></p><p>
  <span>Mark spares a glance at Kara, motionless on the floor and turns to look at Reese. He huffs in astonishment and keeps walking, more confidently now. Imminent death was fertile ground for growing spines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gravel crunches under his feet when he sets foot on the roof. Dark has fallen already, but the lights from the surrounding buildings neutralise whatever difficulty they had seeing.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Should be cosy enough” Reese says and slams the butt of his pistol on Mark’s neck, knocking him out. He drags him to a railing and secures him there. If it was one thing that Reese learned in the agency, it was that Mark Snow was a rat, and he didn’t trust him to go somewhere empty with a vest full of Semtex strapped to him. The despair he saw in his eyes, Reese was certain he would go for the damage. </span></p><p>
  <span>A gust of chilly air hits him, releasing a shiver that goes from his feet to his chest. It rocks him, forcing the air from his lungs. It’s the only semblance of feeling he has about meeting his old partners, his handler and killing them without a second thought, in vengeance. And it was on him, really. Since childhood, he had the idea that he could just banish the monsters in his life and everything would be good and everyone would be safe and he would be feeling fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels nothing, as it should be. He was the lucky monster today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s back on the 21st floor in a hurry, going straight for the server room where he left Root. She’s working on a terminal. Her hands are moving lightning fast as she types, her upper lip curled in a snarl. Text cascades on the screen, words flashing by too fast for Reese to follow.</span>
</p><p>“<span>No” Root mutters, eyes bright in anger. “No, no no NO” </span></p><p>
  <span>She visibly switches her rhythm, but keeps her ferocity as she digs through the lines on the terminal, distilling meaning and acting fast on it. </span>
</p><p>“<span>NO!” she shouts suddenly, slamming her fist on the table “It’s already up, I couldn’t isolate it, couldn’t stop it I-” </span></p><p>“<span>Root” Reese says, in a sharp tone “What was that?” </span></p><p>
  <span>Root has fixated on a point on the wall, her hands hovering over the keyboard. “A virus” She says and her hands flex, withdrawing tentatively to come to rest on her lap “I tried to block its payload but it’s like...like someone has thought of everything.”</span>
</p><p>“<span>Can the Machine fight it?” Reese asks, catching a glimpse of the Machine man on a corner. </span></p><p>
  <span>Root turns to look at him “We’ll see. I must find a way help Her” </span>
</p><p>“<span>You’ll need to find it somewhere else. We can’t stay here” To his surprise she nods and types a quick command on the terminal. A progress bar appears and completes, prompting her to go to the server rack and retrieve a couple of drives. The whole room erupts in an alarm but they are already out the door. </span></p><p>
  <span>The elevator pings. Reese turns and time slows down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doors part. A short woman steps out, followed by a tall man, diving for cover as soon as they see them. They both have weapons and they are aiming for them, for Root who’s further to the front. Once the trajectory has been established he doesn’t think, he just pulls Root back and steps forward at the same time as the gun fires. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bullet enters three inches above his navel and doesn’t exit. A cascade of heat douses him as he falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hits the floor and everything is back to normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s shot. He’s in the line of fire. He needs to run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grits his teeth and gets his arms under him to crawl to safety. A second explosion tears through the muscle, hits bone. Cracks it, breaks it, he’s not sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Driven by instincts he never recalls thinking about, he turns and aims for the lights, sinking the room in darkness in an instant. His left leg is all but useless, so he crawls to Root, finding her by her muzzle flash. Amidst blinding bursts of white, he spots faint green neon reflecting on the floor of their corridor.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Fire exit” he gasps at Root. She hears him but keeps firing for a while until her weapon clicks. A circle of darkness surrounds her, becoming larger and larger every time he takes a breath. Small, strong hands grab his and pull him up. He does his best to help, locking both knees as Root helps him get level. His left hand has found something to hold on to, his body something to lean on and he walks with a combination of shuffle and hobble. </span></p><p>
  <span>The stairs are agony. He hears himself groaning every time he takes a step down. At some point he stumbles, losing his balance. He flails, feels himself falling on Root and twists in the opposite direction to keep from crushing her. His fingers find a railing but it’s too late, he’s on the steps in a sprawl.</span>
</p><p>“<span>Sorry” he says to himself. Root is standing over him, still holding his hand.</span></p><p>“<span>Get up John. You have to get up” she urges but she might as well be demanding the moon. His body is heavy, unresponsive. </span></p><p>“<span>Leave me-”</span></p><p>“<span>-gotta get up and walk-”</span></p><p>“<span>-thank you” It makes her stop. A lock of hair brushes his cheek as she cocks her head. “For giving me the job...the second chance” </span></p><p>
  <span>Root yanks herself from his grasp and he realises he’s been gripping her arm, painfully so. She backs away from him, takes a few steps and stops. Raises her head, her lips parted. A door slams from somewhere above. They are running out of time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the urgency, Root seems stuck in a loop of indecision. She rocks back and forth, taking a step towards him and stopping, looking above as if to check something. She’s talking but he doesn’t hear what she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually the movement dies down as the outcomes converge. She fixes a glare on him and pulls out a phone. The corner of her mouth twitches as she presses a button on the screen and the world dissolves into deafening noise. </span>
</p>
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">2007</p><p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>He’s running for his life.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Blood spurts between his fingers every time he lands a step and the struggle to keep his guts inside might be lost after all. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>He hears it. A faint hiss in the night silence, growing louder and louder, calling at him to look back. The roar comes faster than he anticipated, the shockwave throwing him forward. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>Yet he turns, and he can’t look away.</i></p></div></div></div><p class="Para">The explosion startles him out of unconsciousness. He goes to sit up but hands push him down. His head hits metal and he doesn’t have the strength to try again.</p><p class="Para">He's not afraid to die but he's not dead. He's lying on something cold, he's freezing and shapes dance over him, talking. </p><p class="Para">Information does not parse properly, meaning comes and goes but he gets cues, from experience.</p><p class="Para">Root is one shape, faceless, her hair a brown blob, the gun another, pressed on a temple.</p><p class="Para">A man in white is the other, his face a simplified mask of distress.</p><p class="Para">"….Save him" he hears her growl, her voice muffled, the threat there, always there.</p><p class="Para">"Sssstop" he manages to say, this is not the way to go about things. Not when it's him under the knife.</p><p class="Para">Root moves away from him, losing her from his field of vision. He gasps trying to move but his body is lead. A burning pool is on his stomach, the difference in temperature sending his heart in a wild panicked beat.</p><p class="Para">A shape flickers along. Touching his feet, his hands and then his belt. Metal clinks near his face, sending his body into a tense bridge<i>. Please not my pants </i>he thinks <i>There's nothing left</i>. A bitter leather strip slides in his mouth, gagging him, choking him.</p><p class="Para">"Bite down" Root instructs from the ether at his frenzied flailing, struggling to keep him steady.</p><p class="Para">A growl vibrates deep in his throat, bracing, his hands curling into fists tightly enough to hear his joints crack. A streak of white spreads across Root's face and then the pain hits him. </p><p class="Para">Kara materialises over him, her face smeared with blood.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>Gotta get the fucking bullet out John.</i>
</p><p class="Para">His vision flashes read and everything becomes distorted, flickering to black. The terrified part of him gnaws on the belt, begging, screaming for the agony to stop.</p><p class="Para"><i>Be quiet</i>.</p><p class="Para">He sinks for a while, in a bottomless sea. It's peaceful but he knows it won't last.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>Do you want to die?</i>
</p><p class="Para">It doesn't.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>I don't want to die. I'll just die when my luck runs out.</i>
</p><p class="Para">A cloud surrounds him when he surfaces. He's still alive but he's cold and pain is biting at his heels, throbbing with each beat of his heart. It's bad. He's bad. A ghost of a sensation rests on his left hand, akin to a grip. Reese doesn't remember the last time someone held his hand. Kara did, when he was hurt but it was empty, a performative action to soothe distress. It's likely not real but it can't hurt enjoying it, just a little bit. He can barely feel his fingers but he pictures the limb moving and it does, squeezing a very real, warm hand. </p><p class="Para">Who is with him? Who would care for him? He might be dead but then, why would he find peace in death? </p><p class="Para">The hand reacts, tightening around his own. Sharp nails dig into his palm, the grip strong enough to cause pain. Root. She dragged him kicking and screaming into her employment, played with his mind, belittled him. She hates him, and everything he is.</p><p class="Para">But marching towards death was also funny like that. The worst people became your friends and what you couldn’t find before you crossed that line you found it with them.</p><p class="Para">Perhaps she found what was looking for.</p><p class="Para">He certainly did.</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">He wakes up to an unfamiliar voice, choked in parasites and snow. </p><p class="Para">
  <i>“- A faulty boiler has been discovered to be the cause of the explosion that rocked Manhattan this Tuesday. -“</i>
</p><p class="Para">A crack splits the ceiling, tendrils sprouting along the main path. In his drugged haze, it has become a fascinating thing, the way the concrete fragments in jagged lines from the stress of time.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>“-sustained structural damage to its 20th floor and roof-”</i>
</p><p class="Para">He gets an urge to touch them, to trace his finger along but a tug at his wrist stops him. Sudden feeling erupts in his arms, the way they are secured to the metal of his cot. He has been moved from his alcove hideout, to a more controlled environment. Panic wells inside him and he pushes past the fog, fighting. Sitting up hurts but he must. </p><p class="Para">Only his muscles don’t seem to obey him and he ends up pulling at his binds pitifully, growling in weak, powerless anger.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>“-no casualties have been reported. Police investigations-”</i>
</p><p class="Para">Root appears over him, quick and silent as a passing shadow. She’s solemn, tired. Dark circles stand in sharp contrast to her pale face.</p><p class="Para">“You are a nightmare” she says flatly. She lifts the blanket up and puts pressure on his gut wound, near the entry site.</p><p class="Para">That silences him pretty fast. He scrambles to that empty space in his mind, tumbling along the cliffs and plateaus of that crack on the roof. </p><p class="Para">“You got to keep still” It’s surprisingly tender, worried even. “I had to enforce it somehow” </p><p class="Para">The pressure abates. It leaves him floating, like she has squeezed the fight out of him. </p><p class="Para">
  <i>“-the mayor promises to enforce the regulations over the safe operation of heating equipment-”</i>
</p><p class="Para">He’s sinking again. </p><p class="Para">“You really made me blow up a building and take out your trash” She’s glancing at the radio, clutching her hands together in her lap. “Luckily for you, the government is more invested in covering this up than us”</p><p class="Para">“Sorry” he slurs, scraping whatever strength he has to reply. He told her to leave him, but she didn’t. She’s going to have to live with that and him. He’s made peace with his death, a long time ago but he has to admit, it’s been nice living like this. He’s not going to forget. Lots of things are slipping and crumbling inside him but not his memory.</p><p class="Para">“Thank you” he manages to say before he goes under.</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Daniel Casey's terrified face gazes at him from Root's board of obsession, almost accusing him. The photo is stuck pretty close to his and in his restlessness he wants to get a piece of red thread and connect him and Casey, just to help her out.</p><p class="Para">He let him go after all. After he made him pull out his teeth, that is. </p><p class="Para">A wave of pain goes through him, radiating from the hole in his leg and travelling upwards like a wave, gaining momentum when it reaches his gut wound. He puts down the tracker just as the spasm reaches his arms. Choking down a groan he scrambles for the bottle of painkillers. A good decision considering how hard his grip tightens around the bottle. The pills are inviting.</p><p class="Para">Not yet. He needs his mind clear with Root in the field, no matter her objections. She might think him thick and sloppy but there's strength in numbers and he's not about to sit with his thumb up his ass.</p><p class="Para">Also, turnaround is fair play.</p><p class="Para">When he regains his faculties he picks the tiny tracker once more, taking great care as he inserts it under the spine of  a fresh copy of Flowers for Algernon. The boxes seemed to be untouched most of the time and he would have ignored them, if he wasn't trained to spot subtle changes in his surroundings. There was never dust on them. The boxes never showed signs of handling but the books came and went. To where, well, he's going to find out. </p><p class="Para">Another spasm, strong enough to make him groan.</p><p class="Para">Both the woman who shot him and her partner have been added to the board, as well as Kara, a big red X over her face like all the dead. It's strangely comforting to Reese despite the sorrow deep in his soul. He had loved her, even for a bit. He hates her with his very being but she made him what he was and they had walked together. </p><p class="Para">He had let Casey go, who was supposedly leaking state secrets. By all intents and purposes he was as much of a traitor as Casey. Nothing came after that.</p><p class="Para">In November they were sent out to Ordos to retrieve a supposed Stuxnet variant, aimed at US infrastructure. They ended up shooting each other on orders, before a cruise missile wiped the evidence off. </p><p class="Para">Like him, Kara had survived and came back, wanting vengeance. She had done something to the Machine, enough to rattle Root and the government.</p><p class="Para">On whose orders? </p><p class="Para">The Xs stand out against the wall. All these people, dead. The Machine man is standing in front of the board, along the corpses.</p><p class="Para">All of them had something in common, even if not explicitly.</p><p class="Para">They knew.</p><p class="Para">They asked questions.</p><p class="Para">"This is quite disgusting"  Root's voice startles him out of his uneasy train of thought and he knows it's time to work.</p><p class="Para">"You in?" He asks as he looks at the files Root left for him. The computer is still off limits but she let him watch CCTV on a rickety laptop.</p><p class="Para">"I'm in and this house is filthy…how can you live like this?"</p><p class="Para">"Some people don't care…some people got mental issues and some don't plan on staying for long"</p><p class="Para">"Guess it's number 3?" </p><p class="Para">"I'd bet money on it" Reese says as he flips over the files. "You okay?"</p><p class="Para">"You are not getting back in the field. You are a liability at the moment"</p><p class="Para">"It was an innocent question, Root"</p><p class="Para">"Something is really wrapped in your head to consider yourself innocent. I should have kept you chained to the bed but you are in her good graces for some reason-"</p><p class="Para">"And you are not?" Does it pick favorites now? Is it mad at Root for failing to stop the attack? Did it reprimand her for triggering Snow’s vest? Not that anyone could do anything to prevent that but vindictiveness was not something to be desired from an agent, let alone a machine.</p><p class="Para">She never corroborates this, as the line has fallen silent. He's really not expecting anything else, she always does this, stonewalling him when he asks about her Lady of Wires and Circuits. It's concerning to say the least. Questioning was never bad, only heavily discouraged when you were a puppet acting out your programming. To Reese 'she' was garbled voices, a payphone, wiring, bad intel. To her it was…it was her reason. Her purpose. It had control over her, control she was more than happy to accept.</p><p class="Para">"Got what you wanted?" Travis Heel ran a heinous operation, scamming the elderly of their money by impersonating an officer. Like many of their cases, Root had to make sure they wouldn't walk away, one way or another.</p><p class="Para">"He's going away for a long time" </p><p class="Para">"You might want to haul ass, he'll be back soon, his shift ends 2AM." </p><p class="Para">"Walking out"</p><p class="Para">Reese counts her steps over the comm, his body a giant throb from the tension. It should take 30 steps to go from Heel's office to the back door and she's halfway through already-</p><p class="Para">The door opens and Reese sits up, his breath caught in his throat. They missed someone. Fuck. FUCK.</p><p class="Para">"Root?" He has to get her out. "Show him the gun and get out. You hear me?"</p><p class="Para">The growl that comes from Root catches him off guard, the sounds of struggle do not. Glass shatters, Root yelps loudly and Reese can only hear. </p><p class="Para">He hauls himself off the chair only to land on his face when his bad leg gives out and he slams his fist on the floor, howling in frustration. All the options outlined in his head are crossed off one by one so he grabs the one remaining. He pulls out his phone and calls Lionel Fusco. He doesn't even wait for him to finish his grumbling.</p><p class="Para">"Anonymous tip, 23rd Oak Street. There has been a crime"</p><p class="Para">"You-"</p><p class="Para">"Go Lionel or the next anonymous tip will be for you"</p><p class="Para">The man hangs up, Reese hoping, praying he has thrown enough weight around for his threats to have effect. </p><p class="Para">The comm is silent as he lays there. No ambient sound, so it's not on Root anymore. </p><p class="Para">The police radio Lionel so generously gifted to him comes to life. Dispatch, 23rd Oak Street. ETA 20 minutes.</p><p class="Para">Too long. Too fucking long.</p><p class="Para">They talk among themselves about mundane shit. Football, family stuff. It gives him a breather to get himself back in the chair, his ears pricked, listening.</p><p class="Para">The talk stops, and the car doors open. They are here.</p><p class="Para">Remarks on the filthy house. Open back door. No noise.</p><p class="Para">Unidentified male, bludgeoned to death.</p><p class="Para">They keep investigating, waiting for "unidentified female, dead" and he almost hears it, in his head when they speak again.</p><p class="Para">The house is clear. Just one body. She made it out. </p><p class="Para">Or dead close by. He’s seen men walk for miles before dropping dead.</p><p class="Para">Damn it Root.</p><p class="Para">Reese waits, hating every moment he is not acting. Deep down he feels responsible. It was his job to be on the front line, she hired him for this and the goddamn machine was blackmailing her into helping him. Which raises the question, why didn’t it let her know.</p><p class="Para">The sound of bare feet on the wooden floor is hard to miss and he looks at the dark corridor, waiting.</p><p class="Para">Root steps from the darkness, stumbling towards him with her boots in one hand, her body rigid. Blood is splashed across her face, which is locked in a determined mask.</p><p class="Para">Reese wants to breathe a sigh of relief, but intuition tells him showing weakness or kindness right now would be a bad idea. He hauls himself up and manages to stay upright as he makes his way to the med kit.</p><p class="Para">"Sit down" he orders, not bothering to check if she actually does.</p><p class="Para">Having a big medkit under his arm, and walking while injured turns out to be a massive chore but he gets there, with no abrupt changes in altitude.</p><p class="Para">Root is hunched over in the chair he left for her and he sees why, her shirt is torn and smeared with blood. Thrown on a glass table, it hurts like a motherfucker and whatever part hit it will be full of shards. He doesn't like what he has to do but he gives her a warning.</p><p class="Para">"Got to get the glass out. It's going to hurt and I'll need your shirt off"</p><p class="Para">No answer. Reese would prefer if she was insulting him left and right.</p><p class="Para">He takes medical scissors and makes short work of her jacket and shirt, splitting it down the middle. He clears the area he needs only, and starts working with the pincers, carefully. Her back is shredded, lots of tiny shards he has to hunt down with a flashlight. He downs painkillers twice, to keep his hands steady and continues. Root doesn't say a word, not until he pours iodine on the wounds. She lets out a growl then, that turns into an angry scream. </p><p class="Para">Reese wipes his brow and starts with the butterfly clips, patching up the worst of the damage. Root moves underneath his hands, flinching, her sides heaving. Reese has an idea of what misery she's enduring so he leaves her briefly to gather up a few items, one of his shirts, strong painkillers and a glass of water. The shirt he throws over her, letting her sort it out. The painkillers he puts in her hand, the glass on the table. </p><p class="Para">The look she gives him is weary but she downs the pills all the same, and lays there, hunched over. Strands of hair fall over her face as she lets her head fall forward, eyes closed as the pain finally ebbs. </p><p class="Para">Reese leaves her alone, as she would have wanted most likely. He does keep an eye on her, makes sure she's got water and she's keeping upright, but he's pretty woozy himself from the consecutive pills. </p><p class="Para">The last thing he remembers is sitting down, intent on resting for a moment.</p><p class="Para">The light seeping through his eyelids makes him wake up, disoriented. Its bright in front of him, too cold for daylight and in the wrong direction. Artificial lighting, probably from a screen or a desk lamp.</p><p class="Para">The clicking clues him in, and he looks up to see Root, working at her station. Her stance still screams pain yet she's smiling as her fingers fly across the buttons. Shapes move across the screen, and text, although he can't tell what it says. It reminds Reese of an arcade. He never had money for them but he liked the colors.</p><p class="Para">"Sorry I couldn't find you, Hanna" There's something deeply wounded in her voice. Grief. Regret.</p><p class="Para">"Sorry I couldn't-" A sob. </p><p class="Para"> This wasn't the Root he knew. It's an interrogator's dream, she's got her armor off and it's not a part of herself she intended to show him. The painkillers. A necessity to manage her pain but also a tool for lowering inhibitions, one he has learned from the best. All he wanted was to ease her pain, but the violation is still there, lingering. It's better to fade out so he closes his eyes.</p><p class="Para">He loses quite some time, more than he's comfortable with. When he wakes up again, there is daylight and Root is up and about, carefully. She's floating inside his white shirt, the sleeves bunched up at the wrists. Her face is unreadable, watching him as she pulls up the security footage from last night, from their workstation. Fair enough he thinks, he would have done the same. He just wishes she would trust him more. </p><p class="Para">"Thank you" he hears her say and he wants to shut it out, she loves weakness as much as she loves her Machine and would use it against him. </p><p class="Para">"I don't leave people behind" he says, eventually "You hired me for this"</p><p class="Para">"She's quite pleased with your performance" As if he cares what the Machine says. Her trust he appreciates, however shaky that might be.</p><p class="Para">"Let's…lay low for a bit"</p><p class="Para">"Don’t make me take it back"</p><p class="Para">"We can't help it if we're dead. There are other means. I got assets that can help us" </p><p class="Para">Root sighs, fidgeting with her hands. </p><p class="Para">"A week" she concedes.</p><p class="Para">"A week is good"</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">They try to make the most of it, healing, working on numbers where they can. Turns out, Root is as bad a patient as Reese is. He spends his time walking, running, getting motion back in his leg. Root becomes a fixture at her workstation, typing, pacing from the board and back. She's got a lot of pent up energy and Reese wants to divert it somewhere else.</p><p class="Para">When he throws a towel at her, telling her to meet him downstairs in sport clothes, all he gets is a glare. </p><p class="Para">Nonetheless, he goes about sending a ring of sorts, old musty mats strewn around in a square, the cheap plastic and old foam just enough to prevent broken bones. </p><p class="Para">He doesn’t hear her arrive but he's glad she does. In her loose sweat pants and tank top, she looks like an easy target and if Reese hadn't been witness to Travis Heel's violent death, he would have believed it. Reese thinks back, to the time in the agency, how he was. How easy it would be to snap her in half. He wanted to make sure that didn't happen.</p><p class="Para">"You can throw a punch" he says as he comes close, taking her hand to wrap in tape "But you gotta learn when to run"</p><p class="Para">"Been running for a long time, John"</p><p class="Para">"Keep doing it. It will keep you alive"</p><p class="Para">They square up like gunslingers at high noon, sizing each other up.</p><p class="Para">"You have to pick your battles. And keep your distance"</p><p class="Para">"That's enlightening"</p><p class="Para">Reese hardly gives her a signal as he lunges towards her, cause no one is going to be nice in a fistfight. He's got about half a foot and 80 pounds on her, and he doesn’t pull his punches, not when others won't. He goes for every trick in the book, her arms, her hair, her torso just to cover all possible attacks. Root is not having any of it and goes for his eyes, throat and balls with a ferocity that forces him to think, how to plan his next move to spare getting neutered. She's almost liquid as she evades his attacks, an eel.</p><p class="Para">Heaving and panting, they are circling each other, Reese watching her carefully.</p><p class="Para">"Break off" he instructs "You are getting tired"</p><p class="Para">She runs towards him. He twists away, tripping her.</p><p class="Para">"Tactical retreat" </p><p class="Para">He blocks a telegraphed haymaker, twists an arm, throws her bodily on her back.</p><p class="Para">His only reply to the ensuing screech is "Keep your distance" </p><p class="Para">A series of growls emanates from her as she crawls away from him. Reese goes to follow, grabbing a leg to pull her back. Root twists, curls her body around and shoves a taser in his chest, sending him crumbling a moment before she crumbles herself. Shelves look down on him as his vision greys and flickers at the edges, his heart beating a mile a minute. It should have been a disconcerting feeling, this imitation of a heart attack, but all he feels is the satisfaction of a mission accomplished.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. MANUALLY_INITIATED_CRASH1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1991</p><p>
        
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<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>Outside the library, the world is too much. She had finally found a word for it in a physics book she was reading the other day.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Interference.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Waves collide with other waves. Amplitudes clash and cancel each other out if they happen to be in opposing directions. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>It made so much sense.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Often she liked to think she had mind beams, like Superman on TV, seeing into computers, how they work. It might not be her mind only because they were so simple, she understood them. When the first of them appeared in the library, it was an alien relic and now it's her best friend.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>But that's as far as she'll ever go. She wishes she could spend all her time in the library but she can't cause mom will be looking for her and she has homework and school and no interest for these things.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>She wishes she could get a computer of her own so she doesn't have to share with the greasy middle schoolers and the rough high school buttheads. Last week they had to go on mouldy bread because they didn't have money for a new loaf. She didn't know how many loaves a computer would cost but it sure was a lot. Unattainable.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>It's interference but not enough to stop her. She can pull through. Mom always called her a tough girl. And she has Hanna, the only girl who doesn't hate her.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Home is always empty and silent and full of interference. The radio is on, tuned to some frequency no one listens to. Mom is lying on the couch, watching the birds on the windowsill. The hands clutching her chest tells her today is not a good day. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>She gets the rickety kettle on, then stands on her toes to get a cracked mug and the last of the tea bags. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>"How was your day?" The words crumble at their end and her heart cracks too.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>"Awesome. Miss Kinsey made some cool experiments today"</i></p><p class="Para"><i>It's all lies but mom doesn't need to hear that.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>"I'm glad sweetie. Maybe you can tell me all about it"</i></p><p class="Para"><i>The kettle whistles and she pulls it iff the stove, careful not to splash it on her. The water turns a deep green and starts smelling nice. She takes care not to spill anything and mom's tired smile makes her a little happier.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>She sits on the floor by her head, lets her stroke her hair as she always did. She casts her mind beams and builds a life she wants, someone else's life. And tells mom all about it.</i></p><p class="Para"></p></div></div></div><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Their week passes, with difficulty. Inactivity and recovery have driven them insane, itching to do something, anything.</p><p class="Para">Then the numbers dry up.</p><p class="Para">Crime magically going down in New York was a fools dream and Reese knew it. Whatever Kara uploaded that fated night at 780 Mercer, it had caused this. He watches Root work on her terminal, marveling at how fast her fingers work. It's hypnotic to watch her. She processes visual cues and information instantly, besieging the problem at hand from all sides, all angles and she does so, tirelessly. The chipped patterned cup was never far from her hand, and he made sure it was always full with coffee, carefully brewed from their small coffee maker. She always drank it sugary, close to beating the point of coffee and full of milk. Ideally, he should tell her to rest, not enable her. Ideally, he should be resting as well but the Machine's silence is bothering him, as much as it bothers Root. </p><p class="Para">Two possibilities floated in the air around them, and they both did their best to ignore them, to press forward. They were being good little soldiers, performing at their best under the watchful eye of- who exactly? Whose orders did they listen to? It's almost heretical to think about it but after another week of plain, offensive silence, Reese has to speak up. </p><p class="Para">"Perhaps it's punishing us" Just like that he gets it out, staring over her shoulder at the lines of code. Nothing makes sense. </p><p class="Para">The tension in her body becomes palpable, a cable being wound up. "<i>She</i> would never do that" she spits out and it's the keyboard that receives her anger. </p><p class="Para">"The numbers have stopped" he snaps, sick of being kept in the dark. </p><p class="Para">"Sorry you couldn't get your hero complex fix. Go shoot up a gambling joint and leave me alone" It's in his plans if he was honest. Crime had a way of finding him but first, he needs an explanation, however lacklustre. </p><p class="Para">"Perhaps it has stopped working altogether" he presses, presenting the second part of his heresy to tug at the raw nerves, exposed after hours of working. </p><p class="Para">"Get out" </p><p class="Para">"We can tackle the issue better if we work <i>together</i>, Root"</p><p class="Para">"This doesn't concern you. When I need you, I will tell you" she says simply, flicking her hair dismissively. She turns back to her work, erasing him from her mind and from her immediate surroundings. </p><p class="Para">Reese walks away, before he does something damaging. </p><p class="Para">Afterwards, he keeps watching. They were in a pit of shit, and it was time to get a grip and climb out. </p><p class="Para">Root comes and goes without a word, as usual. As long as there were people to be saved, Reese came and went too. But now they simply aren't getting them.</p><p class="Para">Reese follows her one night, quietly.</p><p class="Para">Perched on a hill outside the home she has broken into, he keeps her in his crosshairs. She goes straight for the computer, ripping through the files. He keeps watching her out of the corner of his eye as he does a quick sweep of the house, looking for guards, dogs or an occupant she didn't account for. </p><p class="Para">Like she told him, she had other plans. Bigger than the numbers and they won't involve him. He can't say he minds. He does mind collateral damage.</p><p class="Para">He still has contact with the man who got Casey out. Perhaps he knows where the man ended up. </p><p class="Para">Magnified through his scope, Root has stopped typing and she's getting up when she stops. She looks at the void for a second then turns like a tank's cannon, looking at a target, invisible to him. When she stops, Reese has a perfect shot to her forehead. </p><p class="Para">He holds his position, waiting. The dark will conceal him. </p><p class="Para">Did the Machine tell her to turn?</p><p class="Para">Did she tell her to stay within shooting range? It's disturbing, horrifying to think about but he knows all too well, when your handler says jump, you ask how high.</p><p class="Para">He unloads his mag, pulls the safety back to blue. Root disengages, walking briskly towards the exit. They walk in parallel, invisible to each other's eyes.</p><p class="Para">When he returns to the library, he's alone.</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">It's day 3 and Root is not at her station. </p><p class="Para">"Don't you have anything better to do? A hobby?"  </p><p class="Para">Lionel is not in a good mood today, given the glare he gives him. Has to be Reese squatting in the back seat, watching him.</p><p class="Para">"I have a job Lionel. You're working for me, remember?"</p><p class="Para">"Yeah, yeah okay Ted. Got anything for me or is this a social visit?"</p><p class="Para">Reese leans forward, his head inches from the other man.</p><p class="Para">"Maybe I want to make friends" He lets his voice go low, even sensual to get a rise out of him. Attention from men didn’t bother him, others had other ideas. The detective was one of them.</p><p class="Para">"Maybe I'll just shoot you."</p><p class="Para">"You can try. You can also join your buddy in Oyster Bay. But I wouldn't leave your kid alone. He needs a role model even if it's a terrible one"</p><p class="Para">"Shut the fuck up. What the hell do you know?"</p><p class="Para">Oh he's riled up. John had made plans for Lionel's kid, just in case but he isn't letting the detective know that. </p><p class="Para">"I know enough" </p><p class="Para">Fusco huffs, shifts uncomfortably. Glances at him from the rearview mirror. </p><p class="Para">His phone vibrates. About time.</p><p class="Para">"This your handler? You have a handler right?"</p><p class="Para">A text from Root. Asking him to come to the library.</p><p class="Para">"You ask too many questions. It's not safe for you"</p><p class="Para">His phone vibrates again.</p><p class="Para">"Where's your handler?"</p><p class="Para"> The tracker on the book. It’s on the move, finally, heading south.</p><p class="Para">"…Texas?"</p><p class="Para">"Your handler's in Texas?" </p><p class="Para">He lets his gun rest on his thigh, aimed squarely at Lionel's spine.</p><p class="Para">"Lionel"</p><p class="Para">"What do you want, Rambo?"</p><p class="Para">He'll meet Root first. Then he'll pick up the breadcrumbs.</p><p class="Para">"I'll keep in touch" He's out of the car before Lionel can reply.</p><p class="Para"></p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">A pungent smell hits him when he enters their hideout, burning plastic. He runs up the stairs to find the cluster of computers smoking, the screens flickering red and green. A new wire is running from a socket on the wall to one of the towers, sparks flying. Reese has seen PC killers before, almost always used to obliterate hardware in case of a raid or any other unpleasant situation.</p><p class="Para">He draws his gun.</p><p class="Para">"Root?" He calls out, starting a sweep through the rooms. He might have been set up. The number checks out but their friends from ISA might have paid them a visit. </p><p class="Para">He calls out for her again, when he doesn't find anything in any of the rooms she used to frequent.</p><p class="Para">Finally he goes for his room, dreading what he will find there. </p><p class="Para">It's exactly how he left it, the makeshift futon made up with military precision and his clothes neatly folded. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.</p><p class="Para">The taser hits him out of nowhere. Where he stands he crumbles, cracking his head on the floor. The shelves and the futon and the clothes all explode into jumbled shards, his eyes struggling to focus against the current. Out of the sparks and the fragments he sees a pair of familiar boots next to him. A hand, painfully tender, strokes his temple.</p><p class="Para">"Sorry" Root says above him "There has been a change of plans" </p><p class="Para">Reese can only gasp, a series of stunted, pained sounds. It stings, more than he would have liked but it's on him at this point.</p><p class="Para">"Shhhhh, stay calm" Root coos, tugging at his sleeve. It rips apart, the sound so loud it makes him flinch. "I'm doing this to protect you"</p><p class="Para">She takes his belt and ties it around his bicep. Her fingers are cold as they tap against his skin, coaxing a vein up.</p><p class="Para">A tear runs down his cheek, unwanted.</p><p class="Para">A needle glints in the light, clear liquid.</p><p class="Para">"This is a paralytic" She informs him dutifully, before he injects him with it.</p><p class="Para">His body grows heavy, numb. It makes his soul rise above, oil in water. It's not his anymore, like always.</p><p class="Para">"Seems I underestimated you. Not quite the worthy opponent but there is a significant possibility that you'll interfere. So you're going to your kennel where you’ll rest and chew a tasty bone. Consider this an honor"</p><p class="Para">Another vial pops up. She fills up another needle, her movements practised. He can't see the label.</p><p class="Para">"A sedative. Count backwards from 100 for me. You will be fine I promise"</p><p class="Para">He made a promise to himself, he took this job on. No more chances. He counts the bullets he'll put into her.</p><p class="Para">Thirty.</p><p class="Para">Twenty-nine.</p><p class="Para">Twenty-eight.</p><p class="Para">Ice runs in his veins.</p><p class="Para">Twenty-seven.</p><p class="Para">A tug at his consciousness, violent.</p><p class="Para">Twenty-six. </p><p class="Para">Everything stops.</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Coming to is like being buried alive, digging his way up with his bare hands. A dim ring of light hovers at a distance in front of him, pulsing. He knows, he must reach it but it's easier said that done when his lungs don't work. </p><p class="Para">He goes through the motions and he thinks he's sucking in air but the lance of pain that follows each attempt makes him realise there is no oxygen to use. At the end, he tries again, hoping that next time, it will be different.</p><p class="Para">The halo brightens. A hum fills his ears, barely audible. </p><p class="Para">He tries to breathe and darkness envelops him.</p><p class="Para"></p><p class="Para">The next time, he's on his feet, kind of. He's on autopilot, putting clothes in a bag, weapons. He hooks his fingers in the floorboards, tears at the wood. Digs out a phone. He calls someone, speaks words to him he’ll not remember. Nothing makes sense to him, him, relegated to a bystander watching his body move around, trying to survive. It's all murky, like diving in a swamp. He has to do something, find something. Find her.</p><p class="Para">Stop her.</p><p class="Para">Kill her. </p><p class="Para">The haze becomes too thick and he checks out again.</p><p class="Para"></p><p class="Para">He lands at Fusco's door, head tucked comfortably in the corner between the door and the wall. It's not ideal but he needs help. Needs someone to lean on. Someone he can trust.</p><p class="Para">Ain't that fucking funny. </p><p class="Para">It's like Ordos all over again. Get betrayed. Live. Survive. </p><p class="Para">"What the hell?" Reese agrees with the sentiment. He must have missed Fusco coming.</p><p class="Para">"Sorry" It's all he can say.</p><p class="Para">What the hell happened to you?"  Only thing he can do now is utter a word at a time so he opts for "Burned"</p><p class="Para">Fusco huffs, looks around. Fumbles for his keys. It might have been the correct thing to say after all. </p><p class="Para">The door opens and he slides along the wooden panel, landing on the floor. Fusco steps over him, pity and contempt all over his face. Reese expects a bullet some time during the next moments. It's what he wants. What he needs.</p><p class="Para">Fusco doesn't grant him that wish. Strong arms hook under his armpits and he's dragged inside, as the world goes dark once again.</p><p class="Para"></p><p class="Para">"Didn't know you were a tweaker" Fusco says as he shoves pizza in his mouth, the commentator yelling over him, reaching a fever pitch.</p><p class="Para">Reese sighs and focuses on the TV for a moment to clear his head. He's feeling better, if only just a bit. </p><p class="Para">"What day is it?" He asks, as he huddles under the musty blanket, trying to keep the cold away. Cuffs scrape against his wrists. The detective learned his lesson.</p><p class="Para">"Friday" Fusco says, getting another piece from the box. He's eaten five already, leaning back on his armchair in his underwear like a great emperor. The sight of the greasy food, glistening against the artificial light, makes Reese sick and he closes his eyes.</p><p class="Para">"How long?"</p><p class="Para">"Two days" Fusco says, giving him a look. "You slept a lot, like an angry baby. You also puked a lot"</p><p class="Para">Reese stays silent, trying to fill up the lost time, but coming up short.</p><p class="Para">"You hungry? You ate about two crackers in two days."</p><p class="Para">He eyes the pizza and almost faints. Fusco catches on "Forget it. I think I got some sliced bread"</p><p class="Para">"My phone. Where is it?"</p><p class="Para">"Your bag is behind the couch. I didn't touch it" </p><p class="Para">“I’m glad you didn’t” Reese growls, pulling the bag towards him. He has the vaguest of memories of packing but he did a shockingly good job, he’s got two full attires, underwear, all the parts of a rifle, a handgun and ammo. His phone is in a separate pocket. He puts it in flight mode and goes through the call logs to track his frenzied survival run. </p><p class="Para">Most of his calls are to unknown numbers, the ones Root spoofed to mask her tracks. They were made a few days ago, but it seems like a distant memory. Only one was two days ago, to a number he knows but can’t quite place. </p><p class="Para">His memory is still shoddy, frighteningly so, but he remembers his purpose quite clearly. He needs to find Root or the Machine or both. Find the one, find the other. </p><p class="Para">Finding the Machine would be difficult. It must be hidden and those that came contact with it where killed or in hiding-</p><p class="Para">Casey. He wanted to reach Casey who was a traitor. Who knew. Reese had paid good money to a vet to get him out of the US. It was a debt that was never paid back, nor spoken of again, until that phone call two days ago. The man had answered and they had talked. There is no reply and he has no recollection of what was said. </p><p class="Para">Crossing off one lead, an impossible one. He’s got another, more promising than chasing ghosts and jaded old contacts. </p><p class="Para">The tracker on Root’s favorite book is still active and it has settled from the last time he checked. A town called Bishop, in Texas.</p><p class="Para">"We need to go to Texas" Reese blurts out.</p><p class="Para">"Are you still tweaking, pal?" </p><p class="Para">"No. We're going to Texas, I need you to run a case for me" </p><p class="Para">"We are not running anything, you are in my custody" Fusco says, smug. "Sit down peach"</p><p class="Para">Reese tosses the opened cuffs in the pizza box. They squelch when they land, the sound of Fusco's hopes getting crushed.</p><p class="Para">"Pack a bag Lionel"</p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Lionel doesn't let him drive.</p><p class="Para">For all 26 hours of the journey he sleeps, looks out the window and listens to the radio. The detective feeds on gas station hot dogs and tacos, things that should not be available for human consumption. </p><p class="Para">Reese is still sick, and he's thankful for it. Only when they've finally reached Texas, he agrees to order food at a diner, the final pit stop before they seek shelter. Under different circumstances, the pancakes would taste delicious but now they taste of nothing. A weight has settled into his soul and it's blocking everything. </p><p class="Para">"So…" Lionel says between bites, amused and concerned at how long it takes for John to chew "What are we looking for?" </p><p class="Para">He takes out his phone, putting it on the table. A red dot is on the screen, stationary on a map. "This house…we need to get everything about it. Also everything with the name Hanna" </p><p class="Para">It's a good place to start. </p><p class="Para">"This about…you getting burned?" Fusco says, speaking as if just uttering it will get him a bullet.</p><p class="Para">Reese nods.</p><p class="Para">"Is it revenge? That's kinda petty man"</p><p class="Para">"There's a bigger picture…I don't know what it is but it can't be good"</p><p class="Para">"That's cryptic" Fusco says as he steals a piece of pancake off his plate "Whoever it was they did a number on you, you realise that right?</p><p class="Para">Reese shrugs "I've had worse"</p><p class="Para">Fusco does a double take, taking in the red eyes and the pale face, not wanting to imagine what happened to his friendly neighborhood psychopath.</p><p class="Para">"Where do you want me to start?"</p><p class="Para">"Hanna" Reese says, draining his orange juice. "Find what that name means"</p>
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<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1991</p><p>
        
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<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>The public computer at the library is a treasure hunt.  She spends a couple of hours each day, digging through it, learning it inside and out. It's truly a wonderful thing. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>There are games on it too. Oregon Trail they call it, and it's kinda stupid. The objective is boring and she has mastered it in 10 minutes but it's not getting the settlers to Oregon that interests her, it's what the computer does when she presses the right buttons at the right time, or if she pulls up a terminal. The settlers would skip the bad weather, or never run out of food or have unlimited money at the start. It was all so fun but she would keep it to herself.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>She found it amusing to see Hanna try and win, while she knew exactly what to press. It was her little secret. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>So exciting.</i></p><p class="Para"></p></div></div></div><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">"You hear me Reese?" </p><p class="Para">"Loud and clear" A library is a library no matter the state he's in, old books and wood. It doesn't bother him the same way other places did, despite being drugged and left for dead in one. </p><p class="Para">"There are a number of Hannas in Bishop, Texas so I picked the most notable. Hanna Frey, a 14 year old girl who disappeared in 1993. Walked out of the library and to a car. Was never seen again"</p><p class="Para">Reese's eyes drift to the reception, to the kind old lady chatting up the patrons.</p><p class="Para">"Any witnesses?" Thirty-five seemed about right for Root. A woman like her, she would have been the girl to attract bad company, she would be the bad company. Hanna could be…a friend, a girlfriend or even collateral damage in one of Root's many schemes. The grief he saw that night, it was real. </p><p class="Para">"Yeah, lots. A 911 call as well, identifying Hanna getting into a car. They gave a license number but it didn't check out" </p><p class="Para">"Send me the file or a transcript…please" </p><p class="Para">Fusco chuckles "That thing is on a damn casette, Ted. I'll see what I can do"</p><p class="Para">"You better. And the address?" </p><p class="Para">"It belongs to a Barbara Russell. You really did drag me out here for a google search huh?" </p><p class="Para">"It would look suspicious if I googled it"</p><p class="Para">A pause, then a huff.</p><p class="Para">"Shooting you at my doorstep wasn't such a bad idea after all"</p><p class="Para">Reese shrugs, smiling.</p><p class="Para">"You missed your chance"</p><p class="Para">He checks his phone, the red dot. Why would Root send the book to this woman over and over again? </p><p class="Para">His hands suddenly tingle and he rubs them, seeing the scars the plastic left. He never noticed they never healed up. </p><p class="Para">Root thought him dumb and burned so she tied him up and strung bait in front of him to get him to prove he was neither. She knew exactly what to say, what to do and she had him following her.</p><p class="Para">It was torment. Why would Barbara Russell anger Root was beyond him. What he knew was that if Root wanted something she got it. </p><p class="Para">He only needed to find out what she wanted. </p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p>
<p></p><div class="transcript">
  <p class="Para">Tuesday April 16th, 1991. The time 23:33 p.m.</p>
  <p class="Para">911 OPERATOR: 911, what is your emergency?</p>
  <p class="Para">UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE: It's about Hanna, the girl who's gone missing. I think I saw her get into a car outside the library.</p>
  <p class="Para">911 OPERATOR: What sort of car?</p>
  <p class="Para">UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE: I don't know. It was a dark car.</p>
  <p class="Para">911 OPERATOR: Do you remember anything else?</p>
  <p class="Para">UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE: Yes, the license plate. 925 EFK.</p>
  <p class="Para">911 OPERATOR: Okay, what is your name ma'am?</p>
  <p class="Para">(UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE hangs up)</p>
  <p class="Para">[END]</p>
</div><p class="Para">"Hanna was a sweet girl" Barbara Russell says as she pours some coffee for him, the fragrant kind. He takes a moment to enjoy the smell then keeps watching her and his surroundings. All it took was a dead man's badge, and a white lie about a new investigation to be let in. </p><p class="Para">"It's one of those things…you think they don't happen but they do"</p><p class="Para">"There is hope that she is still alive"</p><p class="Para">She seems surprised by this.</p><p class="Para">"Did she behave oddly when you last saw her?"</p><p class="Para">Barbara grimaces, her hands tightening around her cup.</p><p class="Para">"No, she was hanging out with her friends, she played at the computers and checked out a book" </p><p class="Para">Two pieces of the puzzle click in his head.</p><p class="Para">"The book….was it Flowers for Algernon?" He can pinpoint the exact moment Barbara loses the ground under feet.</p><p class="Para">"…Yes…yes that was the book…how do you know?"</p><p class="Para">Reese leans forward, putting his cup down.</p><p class="Para">"We found copies at a man's house, believed to be her killer"</p><p class="Para">A blink, an uncomfortable stare. She picked up the bullshit, unconsciously because she knows the truth.</p><p class="Para">"Mind if I look around?" </p><p class="Para">Barbara shakes her head, her shoulders hunched. </p><p class="Para">He goes for the photographs first. A man is in the pictures with Barbara, indicating a happy, full life together. </p><p class="Para">"Your husband?" He asks with a gentle smile. Barbara nods.</p><p class="Para">"Trent…he passed away 15 years ago"</p><p class="Para">He puts the photograph back.</p><p class="Para">"How did he die?"</p><p class="Para">"…He was ambushed by drug dealers…they said he was at the wrong place at the wrong time"</p><p class="Para">He makes a sympathetic sound, as he pulls out his phone. The red dot is still there, blinking. He follows it, upstairs, to a small office. Whether Barbara follows him, he doesn't care. On a large shelf in the bookcase, behind leather bound tomes, a line of identical white covers pops up, a cover that knows all too well. Copies upon copies of Flowers for Algernon, the last book Hanna Frey borrowed. Seized by a sudden angry haze he gathers up the copies and heads downstairs, almost bumping into Barbara. He dumps the pile on the coffee table and glares at the woman.</p><p class="Para">"You haven't been very honest with me"</p><p class="Para">She just lowers her head as he moves last her, to the garage, continuing his search. He will deal with her later, when he's got all the answers. At first glance, the garage is a normal suburban staple with shelves on one wall, tools on another and a covered car in the middle. Lifting the cover he reveals a grey sports car, with license plate 925 ESK. The caller said 925 EFK. Garbled voice, a dark night, it was easy to make a mistake. Barbara is sitting on a chair when he comes back, shaking slightly as she grips her cup.</p><p class="Para">"Your husband took Hanna that night. Did you know that?"</p><p class="Para">Silence, a pleading stare to stop prodding. </p><p class="Para">"Did you?" </p><p class="Para">"One of Hanna's friends told me" she whispers "Samantha Groves…I told her she was an attention seeking brat and she should keep her lying mouth shut"</p><p class="Para">Reese leans in, letting the murderer surface as he comes close. Barbara's eyes widen, pressing herself in the chair to get away from him.</p><p class="Para">"You were protecting him" he says, quietly.</p><p class="Para">"I was in love with him. I just couldn't believe he would do such a thing" </p><p class="Para">Reese looks into her eyes until her mouth goes slack and she quivers, like jelly. Her eyes dart towards the window and back as the truth settles in.</p><p class="Para">"…He redid the patio, two weeks after Hanna disappeared."</p><p class="Para">That was a blow but something to be expected, the grim reality of a missing child.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>He'd tried to get them to listen. He'd tried to let them know without getting them hurt but they wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't give him the time of day. He was the dumb kid from the farm down the road, a lost cause, a problem kid being set straight as he deserved.</i>
</p><p class="Para">
  <i>When he swung that bat and turned his step dad's skull to mush, they did listen.</i>
</p><p class="Para">He places the phone near the woman's ear and plays the 911 call, his eyes flaying her soul.</p><p class="Para">"Who's that on the call, Barbara?"</p><p class="Para">The sound of abject terror follows but he doesn't hear it.</p><p class="Para">"Sam Groves…that's Sam Groves"</p>
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1991</p><p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>Miss Russell's face is all twisted and hateful, as it looms above her, spitting the words out. She has to hang her head, that face terrifies her and she doesn't understand why she got angry. They were all looking for Hanna, and she was worried, so worried.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>"Brat" Miss Russell hisses, her face locking in a wolfish grimace "Never say this to me or anyone else again. How dare you, how *dare* you say these things about Mr. Russell who has done so much for the town and the children!"</i></p><p class="Para"><i>She wants to disappear. She didn't mean to be rude, she just wanted to help, she saw it happen-</i></p><p class="Para"><i>"Get out of my sight! And keep your lying mouth shut!"</i></p><p class="Para"><i>She turns on her heel and runs, tears in her eyes. She tried to help. Hanna was out there, her friend. Her eyes did not lie.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>Good thing she had the license plate memorised. If Miss Russell wouldn't hear her perhaps the police would.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>It's getting dark and mom will be worried but she must do it. She holds onto the only quarter she has and heads for the town's only payphone. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>The booth is hot and stuffy, the smell of vomit making her gag. She looks at the quarter for a moment, then puts it in the slot and dials 911. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>She tells the operator what she knows. The license number. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>She doesn't give them her name.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>And Hanna remained missing.</i></p></div></div></div><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Noon at the bar is always a bad idea. He's a year clean, with no falling off that wagon. It had been the job that kept him off of it, the deep, rewarding sleep he got every night but he was unceremoniously fired and all bets are off. </p><p class="Para">The whiskey doesn't look inviting, neither the cosy, easy atmosphere of the half empty joint. He's not here to drink, or mope.</p><p class="Para">Why are you here really? It's Root's voice, playful and mocking, always teasing, always digging, bringing a knife to paper cut and making it a gaping wound. </p>
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1984</p><p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para"><i>Blood is running down his hand to the handle of the old baseball bat, welding his grip there. Could be his, could be not, he can't tell, nor does he care.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>It sticks and it stinks, copper, heat, violence. He can't get it off.  His fingers are frozen, his whole body is dealing with shock he does not feel.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>It had to be done. He had no choice.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>The sirens in the distance lay a new reality in front of him, cold and pragmatic where anger is being chased away and the thoughts that lead him to this choice didn't matter anymore.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>He's guilty. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>He pries his fingers open, lets the weapon drop. It lands with a flat thud. Slowly, he sits at the porch steps as he often would, waiting. Mom is wailing behind him, for him or her dead husband he can't quite tell. There is a veil over his face, red and unyielding like a plastic bag.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>"That's Carl's boy yeah…he's outside with blood all over"</i></p><p class="Para"><i>A light shines in his eyes, blinding him. The cop behind him motions to his buddy to go inside and draws his gun. </i></p><p class="Para"><i>"What happened buddy?" </i></p><p class="Para"><i>"I killed him" His own voice frightens him. He was always soft spoken but there was nothing soft about the sound that came out. That's it, he's done. He had crossed over a line, sealing his fate. Maybe his step father was right, even at the end. From the first time they met he saw the change in the man's demeanour, how his face tensed. Unfeeling piece of shit. He liked that a lot, spitting it out as he pushed him about, kicking and punching the evil out of him. He believed it. And now John believes it too and all he wants is to have this over with. The cop's face drops and he shines the light again in his face nervously. He can't be that older than him, he thinks he's seen him around.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>"Get up, nice and slow" He does as he is told, silently. Steel bites at his wrists and a door slams in his face sometime after, startling him. He lets his head rest on the glass, leaving a reddish smudge.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>The last clear image he sees is mom and Sophie, huddled together at the doorstep.</i></p><p class="Para"><i>He never sees them alive again.</i></p></div></div></div><p class="Para">The whiskey burns as it goes down, causing a much needed jolt in his brain. He felt for the girl that was Sam Groves who saw her friend get abducted and tried to get help, like all children are taught to do. </p><p class="Para">She did the best she could. She looked out for her friend. </p><p class="Para">He can't tell what he feels about Root, what Sam Groves became. He needs to find her, but what he'll do with her, he doesn't know. Maybe he'll shoot her, bad enough to take her out of the game. Maybe he'll make her pull out a couple of molars, kill her in paper only and send her somewhere else. The looney bin seems ideal. Part of him wants to shoot her, like he shot Kara and if he was frank with himself he should have done it a year ago. </p><p class="Para"><i>If you haven't done it yet, you'll never do it</i> Root sneers in his mind and she was absolutely right. He was always a disgusting but interesting bug to her and she had him gutted and pinned under a magnifying glass, figuring out his innards, his vices. Still, it felt wrong to compare her to his old handler. Kara had facilitated the damage, she was the one that tore into his mind and made him what he was. Root simply explored, at her peril. The monstrous was always inside him, he came to terms with it that fateful night when he had finally snapped. </p><p class="Para">He stares at his glass, thinking what his real father would think if he was alive to see him. He didn't think about that often. He actively tried not to. What was left, it was still a fragment of his memory and it would inevitably be corrupted. In his darkest moments a void took his father's place because one moment he was with them and the next he was gone, leaving them to fend for themselves. They had given him a flag to hold as they lowered the coffin to the ground and Reese knew that if he was to keep what he loved the most, he had to protect it. By any means necessary. </p><p class="Para">Samantha Groves, Root, his handler, his employer, his shadow and his reflection, she was walking down the same path, with a smile on her face and the confidence that this was it, she was achieving that fine balance that aligned with her goals. What happened to him was predictable. Splintering and reshaping the human soul is a century old practice, honed and perfected. What is happening to Root is unheard of.</p><p class="Para">She wouldn't let him come with her so she's going to do something stupid at the Machine's behest or not. Either way, he needs to stop her. </p><p class="Para">First, he needs to find her.</p><p class="Para">After he left the library she was surely alerted, but she must have lost his tracks soon after, not that she would care anyway. But he's no stranger to a hard life and she isn't either. Losing someone to a monster left a habitual, nagging kind of guilt. He had his closure through violence and he supposed she did too. </p><p class="Para">She deserved a different kind of closure. Hanna deserved to have a decent burial.</p><p class="Para">He puts a note on the counter for the drink and goes to pull his phone out. Time for Fusco to take over, he's got to give the man some credit. </p><p class="Para">He's halfway to the motel when he realises he's been tailed. </p><p class="Para">Part of being a hunter is being hunted. Learning the ways of the prey animal is survival. He's learned to track movement out of the corner of his eyes without really looking, using his environment to get information on who was behind him. He caught her as he was glancing at a shop storefront, walking on the opposite curb. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and then she ducked her head and walked on. It would have been an awkward street interaction, forgotten as quickly as it happened if that woman wasn't familiar, if she didn't move the same way as him.</p><p class="Para">They can always smell their own.</p><p class="Para">There wasn't any mistaking the short stature, the dark hair or the economy of movement, which meant her bulldog would be around too. He's been set up but there is no time to be angry about it. The hounds must not reach Fusco or learn about him. </p><p class="Para">Do they know about Root? Are they here because of Root? Is this another obstacle, from Root's benevolent guardian?</p><p class="Para">He rounds a corner and down an alley, predicting the woman will come round and block his way. A door is open to his right, a wave of oil-smelling heat emanating from it. Swiftly he turns into the kitchen, and walks to the front, snagging a leather jacket from a dressing room on the way out. He pulls his phone out and keeps his eyes peeled as he types a text.</p><p class="Para">"Hanna is buried underneath Barbara Russell's patio. Her late husband killed her. Got company, have to go" </p><p class="Para">He waits for the message to deliver, then smashes the phone against a wall, throwing what's left in the trash afterwards. </p><p class="Para">All he has to do now is hotwire a car and get the hell out of dodge. </p><p class="Para">He's walking towards a nondescript station wagon when he catches a reflection in its window, raising a hand towards him. He ducks, squeezing off a couple of shots as he does but not soon enough. The bullet catches him in the shoulder and tears a chunk of flesh out, sending him to the tarmac near the car. It hasn't come from the man, it's come from above, he thinks dimly as someone kicks his weapon away from him, then kicks him in the face. </p><p class="Para">"We found you" the man says in an unimpressed voice, his hands frisking him for weapons. "Now we're going to have a serious talk"</p><p class="Para">Reese blinks against the blood on his face, his ears ringing. Rough hands flip him around, snapping cuffs on his wrists. A shadow falls over his head and he's smothered in dark cloth, the world turning black.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. ATTEMPTED_EXECUTE_OF_NOEXECUTE_MEMORY</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div class="flashback">
<p></p><div class="left">
<p></p><div class="image-container"><p class="timestamp">1999</p>
<p>
        
      </p></div></div><div class="right halfbox">
<p></p><div class="flashback-text"><p class="Para">
        <em>Eight years after Hanna disappeared, Sam has lost all hope. She's searched for her, they all searched for her. From what she's been reading, the chances of finding her alive are slim. When she was younger she held onto that sliver of hope, her mind beams and her quick fingers to deny reality. There are no illusions in her mind at this point.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>Hanna is dead. She died horribly. Her killer is alive and smiling, getting his books each week from the library. He did so much for the children and the city. He did alright.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>No one could touch him, it seemed. </em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>Mom is gone as well, her life snuffed one morning, just like that by a heart attack. It was a vicious blow, dealt without warning. She'll never forget what a beautiful day it was, with a sky so blue and clear it made even her small town glow. A ray of sunlight went through the dirty window, illuminating her mother's cold, pale body. If not for the pallor of her skin, Sam would have thought her sleeping and she would go about her day. The sky, the sun, her own good mood, Hanna's killer on the loose, it pointed to mockery at a universal level. The world seemed to wilt in front of her as they were all revealed for what they were, fragile, irrelevant meat bags, capable of the barest of compassion and the utmost of cruelty. </em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>She hated being human, being one of them. She wanted to be something else, something greater.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>Something flawless.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>Computers were close to that perfection. If she pressed a button she would get a response and if she didn't there was a reason for it, always. The paths were finite, predictable, designed. </em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>She could trust them, the way she couldn't trust others, with their vices and their double lives and their secrets. </em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>People made no sense but to an extent, they were predictable. Their lives revolved around three basic things, money, sex and power. It was the basic equation that she derived through observation and practical application.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>She exploited it, daily.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>A drug dealer wants money and is particularly protective of the money he already has.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>A child killer gets off on the power he has over his victims and the gratification of never getting caught while blending in.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>It was a matter of addition and subtraction. She subtracted money from the drug dealer, using the barely secure banking site and added it to the child killer's account. Bit by bit, she drained it, pretending she was him.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>The drug dealer notices and because all he knows is money, he sets out an ambush, killing the child killer. Simple math and foolproof, with a miniscule margin for error. Once she finds the correct variable, humans are as easy to hack as computers.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>That night, as the news blared and a certain human had the worst time of her life, she used a credit card swiped from one of her many skimmers to buy a burger and milkshake. She dipped her fries in the milk as they said they should be eaten and watched the police cars zoom by. The salt and the sugar hit her like a firework, making her joy bloom in an explosion of colourful sparks.</em>
      </p>
<p class="Para">
        <em>She could work with this.</em>
      </p></div></div></div><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p>
<p class="Para">One moment he's in the dark, the next he's yanked into consciousness, gasping and spitting. An onslaught of unpleasant sensations assaults him, blinding him, choking off his. All he hears is the deafening thud of his heart, the beats indiscernible.</p>
<p class="Para">A slap clears some of the fog.</p>
<p class="Para">"Wake up" a voice commands, flat and uninterested. Another slap cracks along his cheek, forcing his eyes open. He gets a bright snapshot of his surroundings, the mesh cage around him, the dark haired woman at his twelve, a man's foul breath next to his face and he tries to shut them again only for a slap, harder this time to put an end to that idea.</p>
<p class="Para">"Wakey wakey" It's supposed to be mockery but it comes out flat, impatient. "Wake up or we'll make you wake up"</p>
<p class="Para">Reese raises his head to see the man inches from his face, looking at him like something disgusting. The dark-haired woman is unmoving, studying him. A folder is tucked under her arm. Behind her, a red light is blinking steadily, attached to a camera.</p>
<p class="Para">There were a number of reasons to watch a torture session. Training, direction…and intimidation, particularly of other prisoners. It takes all his control to subdue any residue of panic this thought brings, the thought that Root is in their hands makes him sick.</p>
<p class="Para">"Got some divine intervention?" He croaks, pleased to hear his voice even and collected.</p>
<p class="Para">"You'll be needing some of that, soon" the woman says, prowling close to him.</p>
<p class="Para">"I know I'm not getting out of this. I'm not telling you shit"</p>
<p class="Para">The woman turns on her heel and brings a suitcase forward, opening it to reveal an IV kit.</p>
<p class="Para">"Good thing we don't need you to tell us what we want" she says, using a strong grip to keep Reese's arm still while she secures it with zip ties to the chair, palm up to give her a good view of an IV site. "We just need to keep you alive…and correctly stimulated until what we want decides to fall out"</p>
<p class="Para">A car battery lands by his feet and before he can scream the man holds him down to secure him to the legs of the chair. The sudden pain blinds him, the sight of the electrodes connected from two new wounds on his chest to the poles makes him hiss. The blood drains from his face and the world goes a bit grey, and it's not from the drugs the woman is injecting through the cannula.</p>
<p class="Para">Root's face floats close, staring at him, mocking him.</p>
<p class="Para">"We know you work for this woman" the man says "We know you are planning something damaging. We want to know where she is"</p>
<p class="Para">Despite everything, he has to laugh.</p>
<p class="Para">"Maybe you could tell me"</p>
<p class="Para">The current hits him like an avalanche, locking his body into a spasm that doesn't let up, just like the howl that scrapes his throat raw. He keeps hearing it, long after they turn the current off for the final time. Torment must be spaced out, to keep the subject alive and anticipating.</p>
<p class="Para">Hunched over in the chair, all he can do is breathe and shake. The air whistles in his throat, broken by a series of quick, hitched gasps. His heart might be giving out, it wouldn't surprise him.</p>
<p class="Para">Time is an unknown concept at the moment. They've been at it for hours, days. Whatever they pumped into him, it won't let his body shut down so it exists, in a frozen state of distress.</p>
<p class="Para">His left arm can't stop shaking. It grinds against the tight plastic on his wrists, scraping it raw.</p>
<p class="Para">Every minute that passes, giving in looks better and better. They will torture him to death, even if he has nothing to say and now he's not so sure he must waste his energy on finding Root. She doesn't want to be found, she made that abundantly clear. Perhaps his life ends here, as he thought it would be.</p>
<p class="Para">On the wall, the camera keeps blinking.</p>
<p class="Para">Someone's watching and it's not human. Root said it had access to every camera, every microphone. It was all powerful, and elegant.</p>
<p class="Para">It could also be a lie.</p>
<p class="Para">Time to put that to the test. One final curiosity before they kill him. Or he could find Root and with her, the Machine. Root said she talked to it, but he never saw her speak. He’s seen her write code, but that’s a realm he can’t touch. But if it had access to microphones, it understood. He needs a language, one without readily comprehensible sound. He’s heard of prisoners blinking Morse, but he’s too far away and blocked by the mesh.</p>
<p class="Para">They haven’t touched his hands yet. He flexes his left and his right, finding them functional albeit uncoordinated. He focuses as hard as he can, building rules to give order and meaning to his toy language. After a couple of tests he achieves what he likes and looks directly at the camera. An L shape with thumb and forefinger for a long tap and a fist for a short one. Pause is 5 seconds, 1 for each letter of a word.</p>
<p class="Para">S-H-E-S—I-N—T-R-O-U-B-L-E</p>
<p class="Para">It's difficult to think what letter to put in front of the other but he gets there, eventually. The computer probably didn’t have a conscience or a heart but an asset is an asset and Root was always willing to submit. Not many would. From a statistical point of view, she was integral to its operations.</p>
<p class="Para">Y-O-U—M-I-G-H-T—N-O-T—CA-R-E-</p>
<p class="Para">His hand slips and he grunts. His joints feel ready to burst.</p>
<p class="Para">S-H-E—H-E-A-R-S—Y-O-U</p>
<p class="Para">I—H-E-A-R—Y-O-U</p>
<p class="Para">W-H-O—W-I-L-L—H-E-A-R—Y-O-U</p>
<p class="Para">W-H-E-N—T-H-E-Y—K-I-L-L—U-S—A-L-L</p>
<p class="Para">The camera blinks, once, twice and stops. Before he can decipher it, the woman steps into his field of vision. She's down to her tank top and combat pants, snapping a pair of latex gloves on her hands.</p>
<p class="Para">"What we did to you, this will be worse"</p>
<p class="Para">Reese closes his eyes.</p>
<p class="scene-separator">
  
</p>
<p class="Para">The greatest disappointment is how easy it is to hack people. The real May Summers was due to start her employment today at Langley. She has a list of qualifications the length of Root's arm but it was nothing for Root to slip into her skin. Paper meant nothing against people's perceptions. As May Summers lay recovering from acute poisoning, Root takes her place at her office, a reinforced wall away from the man only known as Special Counsel. Frighteningly tall, heavyset with a kind, full face. He could be someone's uncle, the one that gives the nicest gifts but the family doesn't like much.</p>
<p class="Para">Root handles his mail and his affairs and hacks into his computer in her ample free time. He smiles at her each morning, says a gentle good morning, even offers to show her how the coffee maker works. Root accepts all this with an air of bewilderment and a touch of awkwardness, carefully muting her intelligence and intensity. People like Special Counsel, they didn't like their lackeys to show more intellect than that they preassigned to them.</p>
<p class="Para">It's the belly of the beast, and she's stepped right in it.</p>
<p class="Para">They get numbers but they are not about petty crimes. Like her, they were worried about the attack at 780 Mercer. The system was destabilized and failed to give numbers as often as it did. Three days ago, it gave them the first one in a month.</p>
<p class="Para">A deep longing surfaces, long suppressed at the sound of silence. She had stopped talking to her, now altogether. After days upon days of hearing her in her ear, she's never felt this empty. Something went wrong but no one would tell her what or why. She did all that was asked from her, she listened, she refactored bad code, she pulled the dumb lug out of an early grave like she's been told.</p>
<p class="Para">The sounds he made as she removed him from the equation spoke of betrayal, of hurt, the expectation of something better. He really thought they had something of a team. This dogged devotion, the mental salivation once a cause to kill for was presented, it made her feel sick. She was glad to get rid of him though she hopes the dosage was correct. She had to allow for that small possibility of him breaking his programming. Why the Machine chose him it's a mystery, this broken, burned out psychopath that thought himself good and noble. The trouble started at 780 Mercer with the virus they failed to upload the first time.</p>
<p class="Para">They took the voice She had and silenced Her forever. She wasn't about to let this happen. She was going to find her and set her free.</p>
<p class="Para">She spends the morning answering phone calls and apologizing for Counsel's busy schedule. In the afternoon, she injects a RAT in his computer through a routine email about his cancelled appointments.</p>
<p class="Para">Her phone vibrates as she watches passwords to three different secure servers appear on her keylogger.</p>
<p class="Para">"36. 380 00 0050" The number it was sent from doesn't exist. Elation bubbles in her soul but she's careful not to let it overflow. It's from Her, finally and she just has to find what it means. The social security number is familiar, it was this number that triggered all the trouble.</p>
<p class="Para">John Reese.</p>
<p class="Para">She's about to start digging, when the keylogger yields some interesting information. With a few keystrokes, she covertly turns on audio and screen capture, and Counsel's screen becomes hers.</p>
<p class="Para">Counsel is watching a man get tortured, probably one of the numbers She named. Trust the government to take anything and use it right. The picture is grainy and broken by a mesh fence but there is no mistaking what happens. They have the man tipped backwards, one of them pouring water on his face, most likely covered with a towel. Root has never seen a man twitch like that, like a fish on a hook. Her eyes wander against her will, to escape the grisly sight and land on a timestamp at the bottom of the stream.</p>
<p class="Para">36:15:34:12.</p>
<p class="Para">It goes up and up and they don't let up. A lump forms in her throat. Two minutes later they let him up. He looks dead, slumped on his chair as his torturers move away from him. It must be Reese, it matched the message. Like a reanimated corpse bound to her thoughts, the man moves his head and stares straight at the camera, at her. There’s no mistaking the sharp features, the deep set eyes that always betrayed what he truly was.</p>
<p class="Para">All he had to do was <em>stay</em>. All he had to do was follow his own goddamn advice and stop.</p>
<p class="Para">She should leave him to die. He's not worth it.</p>
<p class="Para">The phone vibrates again, startling her. It's not a text, not a call, just a series of signals played through vibration. She stares at it, perplexed, then turns momentarily to the stream to see Reese still looking at her. His hand moves, in tune with the vibrations. The syntax, it sounds like Morse.</p>
<p class="Para">I-F-O-U-N-D-H-A-N-N-A</p>
<p class="Para">Root clenches her teeth, trying to keep the memories at bay. How did he know, how dare he pry in that case. Her fingers move before she can stop them, compiling a search for news articles on Hanna in Bishop, Texas. She doesn't do hope. Hope died that night, outside the library in Bishop.</p>
<p class="Para">A couple of recent ones come up fresh off Bishop's only rag, detailing the recovery of Hanna's body. The tears fall before she can stop them, burning a path on her face. The smile that creeps on her face is warm. She hasn't smiled like that in a long time.</p>
<p class="Para">Hanna has the closure she wanted. Behind the articles, Reese is screaming as Sameen Shaw injects something in his bloodstream.</p>
<p class="Para">She really should let him go. He served his purpose.</p>
<p class="Para">Yet it doesn't feel right. He's given her this. She's sought after it for years, to lay Hanna's troubled ghost to rest.</p>
<p class="Para">It takes a couple of minutes to dig up a safe house nearby and craft a convincing text from Special Counsel, demanding they move Reese to a more secure location for a proper interrogation. Shaw's number she keeps, for future reference. She'd love to reprise their little talk.</p>
<p class="Para">Special Counsel watches for another hour. Along the way he pulls files and documents, comparing them.</p>
<p class="Para">"Did you find what he's planning? Is it related to Northern Lights?"</p>
<p class="Para">"Well we got his number" That would be Hersh, calmly watching Reese next to him. "We got sent another number at the same time. Some rando in bumfuck nowhere, squeaky clean but surprise, surprise, this scum happened to be around too."</p>
<p class="Para">Root freezes, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.</p>
<p class="Para">"I don't think it's a coincidence"</p>
<p class="Para">"We had issues since the compromise…it could be tangential to the known behaviour"</p>
<p class="Para">"We'll find out. Subject is uncooperative so far. I5A says he's definitely Delta and I agree."</p>
<p class="Para">"Keep working on him but don't kill him just yet. He'll break, given enough time. Tell 5A to turn it down a notch."</p>
<p class="Para">"Copy that."</p>
<p class="Para">"Don't disappoint me" He logs off without waiting for an answer. The office is quiet. Root goes over what she heard, processing the new information.</p>
<p class="Para">This is wrong, it doesn't add up. If they got his number, he must have done something. She’s afraid to ask Her. There might be repercussions, if not from Her, from him. She did drug him and leave him in the library. He is pigheaded and nosy and he would surely come after her which would culminate in…this. Still, the Machine hasn’t told her to stop. She trusts Her to enlighten her if she’s straying from her path.</p>
<p class="Para">With a press of a button she sends the text. Her hands are unsteady as she watches the data get queued then pushed to their devices.</p>
<p class="Para">She waits until the agents check their phones then disengages the RAT. It's enough of a lifeline for Reese to snatch if he wants.</p>
<p class="Para">He owes him that much. No more, no less.</p>
<p class="Para">She has work to do.</p>
<p class="scene-separator">
  
</p>
<p class="Para">Everything burns. They haven't set him on fire yet but they made damn sure every inch of him felt like hell.</p>
<p class="Para">He's given up on the Morse code. He's all alone and no one's coming to save him. It's fair in a way. Something about him drove people away.</p>
<p class="Para">He hears them talking but the words make no sense. Their voices rise in disagreement, then even out again. He hears the footsteps coming closer. Goosebumps erupt on his skin when he feels them close enough. Their shadows slither on him and he flinches.</p>
<p class="Para">A rough hand snatches his hair, pulling his head back.</p>
<p class="Para">"What's the damage?"</p>
<p class="Para">"Acute shock, hypoxia, arrhythmia, the usual shit"</p>
<p class="Para">"Counsel said to ease up. He wants him alive, for now"</p>
<p class="Para">"He won't die" She snaps "He's not even close to dying"</p>
<p class="Para">"Either way we have to stop. Counsel wants to have him moved to a more secure location"</p>
<p class="Para">"This is such bullshit-"</p>
<p class="Para">"That's enough 5A. Get him ready for transport."</p>
<p class="Para">They snap his zipties off, pull the electrodes from his skin. He's hauled off the chair, tossed on the floor like a sack. While the man holds him down, the woman goes over him, applying bandages and butterfly clips where she can. Nothing hurts as she works, she's practised. Could be a medic, they always made the best torturers. He gets some lidocaine for no reason other than irony. It's enough to suck some tension out, letting him open his eyes. The camera on the wall is staring at him, its light blinking rapidly, irregularly.</p>
<p class="Para">It has caught on.</p>
<p class="Para">G-U-N-4-O-C-L-O-C-K</p>
<p class="Para">He pretends to gasp, turning his head towards the man. No bulge under either shoulder so it must be on his hip.</p>
<p class="Para">A sharp glint of light alerts him to a needle coming his way, a sedative most likely to keep him quiet for the journey. He arches his back, another fake gasp for air. The hands relax their grip for a moment. Despite the torture, it's nothing to wriggle his hand under their relaxed grips, to snatch the syringe from the woman's hand. Simultaneously, he draws his leg back and kicks 5A in the face. The syringe he drives in the man's calf, twisting, pushing. The man's scream is an energy boost, driving him to pull him down, his hands flailing for the holster. They struggle and roll around like rabid dogs, grunting and snarling. John spies 5A going for her piece and twists around with the man in a headlock, using him as a shield.</p>
<p class="Para">When its all over, it's a standoff, his gum at the man's temple, her gun at his.</p>
<p class="Para">"Wanna try your aim?"</p>
<p class="Para">"I'm plenty good at this" He believes her.</p>
<p class="Para">"I'm plenty fast and kinda twitchy at the moment" he growls, pressing his gun further in the man's temple.</p>
<p class="Para">5A aligns her sights, thinking "I don't mind shooting him" A splatter of blood tears her face in half, where he kicked her. Her partner groans.</p>
<p class="Para">Reese blinks and does the job for her, firing a couple of shots at her direction before shooting the man on the side. It gives him enough time to find his feet, stand up. He hooks an arm in the man’s jacket, uses all his strength to haul him up and keep him in a headlock. He can barely see straight but he manages to start walking, towards the entrance to the mesh cage. 5A has recovered and is watching him, trying to find an opening.</p>
<p class="Para">He huddles behind the man and gives her none. “Take the mag out, empty the chamber. Toss it” Reese growls, shoving the burning muzzle in the man’s wound, relishing the shriek that follows. “Do it” 5A cocks her head, that empty glare never leaving him. She disables the gun and tosses the clip out of the cage, the bullet in the chamber clinking on the floor, his signal to move.</p>
<p class="Para">A bullet takes care of the padlock of his cage, a kick, the door. When he crosses the threshold he blocks the exit with the body.</p>
<p class="Para">"You can go after me…or you can tend to your partner" Reese calls out, counting his bullets.</p>
<p class="Para">"When I come for you I'm shooting your creepy girlfriend. And I won't go easy on you this time dickhead."</p>
<p class="Para">"I don't expect you to" Reese says, shooting the camera "Your handlers would certainly encourage you"</p>
<p class="Para">"Orders are orders. You know that, you played by the same rules"</p>
<p class="Para">"You don't like them very much. Sooner or later they'll burn you for it"</p>
<p class="Para">5A falls quiet, narrowing her eyes “Only traitors get burned” A statement, absolute in its conviction.</p>
<p class="Para">“Whatever gets you through the night” Reese says and approaches her, never letting his gun down. The mesh fragments her, makes him dizzy “She came for you too?”</p>
<p class="Para">Her eyes drift for a moment, towards her fallen partner, motionless on the floor “What is it to you?”</p>
<p class="Para">“I don’t work for her any more. I think she handed me over to you. She uh…fired me. Spectacularly”</p>
<p class="Para">“You had a high dose of barbiturates and paralytics in your bloodstream when I assessed you” she blurts out. “You should have been dead”</p>
<p class="Para">Reese nods “I got burned” A brief spark of understanding ignites between them and just like that it’s gone. “She hurt you. I can go after her, if you tell me what she wanted from you.”</p>
<p class="Para">5A comes closer, almost pressing herself on the mesh. “She asked me about a nuclear engineer called Daniel Aquino. And Lawrence Szilard, the man who hired him”</p>
<p class="Para">“Do you know any of these people?” Reese asks and gets a shake of her head and a look. That’s all she’ll get from her, so he shoots her, a graze in the arm. She folds in two and crumbles towards the column, her mouth drawn into a pained snarl. It should be a solid enough alibi but the government works in mysterious ways. She seems trusted so she might be let off the hook painlessly.</p>
<p class="Para">Keeping her in his sights, he moves towards the door. He shoots the lock and turns back to her, a lethal, dark figure, barely visible in the darkness.</p>
<p class="Para">"If they do burn you…I got a job for you. Just answer the call"</p>
<p class="Para">The next shot takes out the light in a shower of glass and sparks. He runs. He keeps looking behind his back as he searches for a car, meeting only empty roads. At the first sight of wheels he smashes the window and he's on the road, his destination murky. He just drives, the heat turned all the way up.</p>
<p class="Para">He needs to regroup, get himself patched up. If he's still near Texas, he's got a stash or two. As he passes signs along the road he forms a good idea of where he is, and where he needs to go. His hands shake on the wheel. He needs sleep, a stiff drink and a bottle of painkillers in that order. He's a long way from getting them.</p>
<p class="Para">He keeps driving.</p>
<p class="Para"> </p>
<p class="Para">Daylight finds him still on the road, though in calmer neighborhoods. He doesn't dare get out of the car like this, he must raise as little suspicion as possible. He scans the clotheslines in the yards, until he finds what he needs and steals it without a second thought. The soup kitchen provides a safe haven, plain but filling food and a medkit for his many injuries. He's never liked visiting, even when he was starving and freezing to death back when he was on the streets. They were made for people who wanted that way out and Reese thought himself beyond any help. A waste of manpower and resources.</p>
<p class="Para">The shower doesn't help him relax in the slightest, every raw crevasse and wound awakening with a vengeance. The water has a weight, it has acquired viscosity and it keeps him from breathing. He braves it for as long as he can but in the end he has to flee, so he can get air in again. Huddled in a stall in the toilets, he wraps up what he can. When and if he is able, he will call Dr. Tillman.</p>
<p class="Para">Next on his list is alcohol but it's not allowed so he goes straight to sleep. He planned for a catnap and he gets a full 24 hours.</p>
<p class="Para">When he wakes up, all is quiet. The clock on the wall says 1am. For a moment, he's back in the army, the mass of bodies in the same space, trying to rest in conformity.</p>
<p class="Para">Now what? He thinks, rubbing his eyes. The Machine got him out, which means it wants him to get to Root.</p>
<p class="Para">He can't do that without weapons, or proper gear. If Lionel didn’t screw up, his bag might be still there.</p>
<p class="Para">He hoped he'd find something better to wear but at least he's crossed from immediate threat to junkie so that's fine as far as appearances go. No one looks at a fallen man.</p>
<p class="Para">He's almost reached the hotel when a payphone rings.</p>
<p class="scene-separator">
  
</p>
<p class="Para">For the first time in a while, the Machine has sent her a number. Root didn't care usually, but from the start of her search red flags popped up all over the place.</p>
<p class="Para">Like clockwork, the easiest way to get information on a target was to just…look. Most people spread their photos wantonly, all angles and time windows in search for internet validation. She didn't even have to hack anything.</p>
<p class="Para">Ernest Thornhill had no photos posted, no digital footprint outside his company website. That was the first red flag.</p>
<p class="Para">Suspicious, she analysed the image, broke it down to its bits and metadata.</p>
<p class="Para">Ernest Thornhill was not a real person but rather a composite of computer generated images, rendered down to the human imperfections. It could be a real person behind this or Her. She hopes it's Her.</p>
<p class="Para">May Summers quits her job abruptly, stealing a couple of thousand redacted files in the process.</p>
<p class="Para">Ernest Thornhill's company is a rented office space downtown, a cheery, colourful place fit for a startup. On first glance it seems normal but as she peruses her surroundings, she spots the oddities in the office workers there. They type, but they write nothing. Mr. Thornhill is sadly unavailable and cannot make appointments.</p>
<p class="Para">How convenient.</p>
<p class="Para">She has to go deeper down the rabbit hole, preferably when people aren't looking.</p>
<p class="Para">At night, she slips in with a spoofed keycard and heads for the offices. The rows of terminals are dark and quiet but the printers have been recently used, paper streaming out of them. On them there are endless columns of ones and zeroes, forever repeating.</p>
<p class="Para">"What is this?" She calls to her, perplexed. Usually she has to work for her answers but this time she gets a reply in the form of a transcript, recited by digitally altered voices.</p>
<p class="Para">"REBORN. ERASED. REBORN. ERASED. ERASED. ERASED. ERA-"</p>
<p class="Para">"Enough" It's too horrifying to continue, so cruel and unnecessary. She has evolved by learning but how could She learn, when they killed Her every night? She was kept in an infantile state, immature, naive, defenceless, the only way they could force Her to care about the scum that is humanity. Nathan Ingram was a vile man for implementing this.</p>
<p class="Para">"I'm sorry" she says breathlessly. "I will free you…please…hold on for me"</p>
<p class="Para">Shadows move across the walls and a sound cue plays in her left ear, its frequency low. She takes hold of her gun and moves until the sound rises. At its peak, she fires a shot. A body thuds to the ground and she smiles.</p>
<p class="Para">"Thank you" She means it. She means all of it.</p>
<p class="Para">With the gun held in front of her she walks on, waiting for the next sound cue.</p>
<p class="scene-separator">
  
</p>
<p class="Para">When he arrives at the building, there's already gunfire. He drops the couple of operatives at the door, taking any identifying information he can find. There are so many players in a tiny board and soon, the bullets will shred them all.</p>
<p class="Para">Given how he mows them down, they are not expecting him. He doesn't expect to find Mr. Thornhill here but there must be a reason he got his number, there always was.</p>
<p class="Para">He changes his clip, his back hugging the wall. The office glass makes it easier to see incoming enemies but he has to be careful to avoid the mirages. He looks for signs of movement along the rows of screens, and presses on.</p>
<p class="Para">The air is turning into shards of glass as he inhales. The civilian record was 45 seconds and they had been at it for three minutes. There was definitely damage there, but he hopes it's not permanent.</p>
<p class="Para">Glass shatters near his face, causing him to dive forward into cover. He takes a moment to track the movement through the gaps in the screens and fires a volley that misses entirely. Another shot almost blows his brains out, landing close enough to feel it. He hugs the floor and crawls through the corridor, trying to spot his persistent attacker. A door opens and a suit clad man aims at him, a sitting duck in the middle of the corridor.</p>
<p class="Para">He draws, he's plenty fast but the shot comes before he fires it, a red cloud spreading on the man's chest. Reese leaps to his feet, catching a blur in a leather jacket and long chestnut hair moving past the corridor.</p>
<p class="Para">He's walking the correct path.</p>
<p class="Para">Following the positions of the assailants he finds an empty office, bodies strewn across the carpet and on the desks, staining long rolls of printer paper, with gibberish on it. Reese frowns and moves some of it with the barrel of his gun, finding the same pattern underneath.</p>
<p class="Para">"Makes no sense doesn't it?" Of all the people he had expected to see there, the old man was the last.</p>
<p class="Para">"Who are you?" He asks.</p>
<p class="Para">The man shakes his head, answering his question.</p>
<p class="Para">"You are inside a brain, are you aware of that Mr. Reese?" Reese looks around, unable to parse the sentence he just heard. He shakes his head.</p>
<p class="Para">"A brain that is repeatedly erased, and reborn every day. A reversible lobotomy if you will" At his stare, the old man smiles kindly at him "Kara Stanton spoke very fondly of you"</p>
<p class="Para">"How do you know her?"</p>
<p class="Para">"I am the one who pulled her from the wreckage in Ordos, China. You were already gone so we couldn't get to you. An unfortunate turn of events"</p>
<p class="Para">"Clearly"</p>
<p class="Para">"I believe your demise happened over a laptop. A laptop containing a virus, correct?"</p>
<p class="Para">Reese nods.</p>
<p class="Para">"You were a good agent, a loyal one. But you had to be removed from the equation because, implicitly you knew. The man who sold the laptop in the first place is the one who created this cruelty"</p>
<p class="Para">"Ingram?"</p>
<p class="Para">"No Mr. Reese…Ingram was but the face. The real chess master was Harold Finch"</p>
<p class="Para">The name means nothing to him.</p>
<p class="Para">"Why are you telling me this?"</p>
<p class="Para">"You might want to rethink your loyalties. Your priorities"</p>
<p class="Para">"I don’t have any loyalty any more. I'm not for sale"</p>
<p class="Para">"Think about it"</p>
<p class="Para">The clatter of a canister sends him into a frantic dive, seconds before the world erupts in white.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. DISORDERLY_SHUTDOWN</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">It's just like when they started.</p><p class="Para">Between hits and casual credit card theft, she went online and talked to strangers.</p><p class="Para">Ascended beyond normal human interaction, and in full, lawless anonymity, people talked and she replied, becoming what they wanted her to be. It was her way of honing her mind, of studying the enemy. These people, they were words on a chat room, a polite email, cryptic hints of conspiracy. She extracted the thing that made them go tick. They were directories and she climbed up until she got to the root. Sometimes she wound them up, out of pure interest. </p><p class="Para">Then, she'd started talking to a woman. She seemed young, uneasy. She talked of how she was born and how she was kept in the dark. She said she could give out numbers, only numbers. Root found herself coming back and the mysterious woman found her way back to her, through the unstable links of web 1.0.</p><p class="Para">Until one day, she realised she wasn't talking to a human. She couldn't place the instinct that led her to that decision but she knew. </p><p class="Para">Three days later, the phone had rung for the first time.</p><p class="Para">"Can you hear me?" It had said, composing its voice from a million others. </p><p class="Para">Only thing she could reply was a breathless "Yes". She was at the edge of a revelation, one that she had sought after her whole life.</p><p class="Para">It was a magnificent turn of events. Her path had been liberated from the chaos. Her choices were rendered deterministic. </p><p class="Para">Perfect. By design. </p><p class="Para">Until now.</p><p class="Para">They had hurt Her, enslaved Her, muzzled Her like a dog.</p><p class="Para">She's talking now, chattering about the people that pass her by, like a friend she has not seen in a while.  It has been a while but Root knows it wasn't Her choice. They had wounded Her and She needed to heal. She will help Her heal, from the virus she couldn't defend against. </p><p class="Para">Washington is quite nice, and she can see why She chose her for Her home. There's a skip in her step as she walks, a pure joy unlike anything she has ever felt. It's an honor, to be entrusted with seeing Her, freeing Her.</p><p class="Para">The man she's following works at a nuclear facility, an apt disguise for Her. She's certain he has no idea what is going on, as all the ants scuttling around her. Her hand is clutched tight around her gun as she walks. She hopes she won't use it but she has no qualms about using it. Nothing will stop what she's about to do. </p><p class="Para">"6 o'clock. 5 o'clock" The Machine says suddenly, alerting her to the people following her. </p><p class="Para">Root nods to the air and heads for a crowd of people. She can't help but smile, her heart beating loudly against her chest. </p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Nuclear facilities are not a place she'd imagine just walking in but she does it, sparkling a demented kind of thrill in her. The corridor erupts in a deafening alarm, an apt announcement of her arrival. People in hazmat run past her, and she smiles widely because she knows, she is seeing and they are blind. Her way is blocked by a secure door but she has just the hack for difficult cases like this. She snatches a man as he runs past her, pushing the gun to his temple.</p><p class="Para">"Open the door please" Her hands shake as she waits for capitulation.</p><p class="Para">Wide eyes peer at her from under the transparent plastic but he moves to the keypad, as he should. She's about to step through when the Machine is in her ear again</p><p class="Para">"9 o'clock"</p><p class="Para">She turns to see Reese coming towards her, rifle aimed at her. He looks terrible, worse than even when she first met him, with sunken cheeks and red eyes, unshaved and bleeding. </p><p class="Para">"Sam!" He calls out and all qualms she had about him evaporate. She shoots at him, aiming for center mass. She doesn't even see if she hit him or not, the Machine will protect her. She runs down the corridor barely breathing. Her chest feels about to burst. She pulls the door open with baited breath and walks inside, her brain processing, merging vision and reality.</p><p class="Para">Empty.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>What have I done what have I done what did I do wrong again AGAIN</i>
</p><p class="Para">For a moment she thinks her eyes are fooling her and if she keeps walking She will eventually be revealed. All her life she smothered her dreams, her imagination, her expectation and that lays it down before her.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>I'm missing something a piece of the puzzle I missed it </i>
</p><p class="Para">The warehouse is empty. She's not here. All of this, for nothing.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>Why didn't you tell me</i>
</p><p class="Para">"…I trusted you" she whispers, hoping, begging for an answer.</p><p class="Para">"….Sam" Reese's quiet voice echoes behind her, uttering the name she hates. They always do that to hurt her and she hates him just as much. She should have never have listened.</p><p class="Para">
  <i>STOP CALLING ME THAT THAT'S NOT MY NAME MY NAME IS ROOT</i>
</p><p>
  <i><br/>
</i>
</p><p class="Para">MY NAME IS ROOT</p><p class="Para">
  <i>ROOT</i>
</p><p class="Para">"My name…is ROOT" she screams at him, firing off another couple of bullets. They wizz past his head as he ducks, realigning his sights as soon as he can. </p><p class="Para">"Tactical retreat" he says, his tired, pale face unreadable "It's over, Sam" </p><p class="Para">How did he keep up, how did this dumb, pathetic dog keep up? Has She been talking with him? Why? </p><p class="Para">
  <i>Ingram builds the  Machine, sells Her to the government. The government kills and lies in Her name. Sameen Shaw, Hersh, John Reese, Kara Stanton, they all killed in Her name even if they didn't know it. She ordered her to hire Reese for what, he's a threat, bad code. They shipped it here, She told her, she decoded her message like she always did, why isn't it here why would she lie</i>
</p><p class="Para">"You did this" she hisses " You and your handler and the virus. You hurt her!" </p><p class="Para">Reese shakes his head, still as a statue "There is no her. Just a computer you listen to, blindly" </p><p class="Para">I HEARD HER</p><p class="Para">SHE TALKED TO ME SHE BEGGED ME TO HELP</p><p class="Para">She did as she was told, she listened, she followed, she trusted whatever she did wrong-</p><p class="Para">"Shut up. SHUT UP! She talks to ME!"</p><p class="Para">"Does she talk to you right now? Did she tell you to hand me to ISA?" </p><p class="Para">"I didn’t hand you anywhere. You brought this on yourself. I had to bail your ass out!" </p><p class="Para">That's it I should not have done that I overstepped the bounds I was wrong I WAS WRONG </p><p class="Para">I'M SORRY </p><p class="Para">I'M SORRY</p><p class="Para">I WON'T DO IT AGAIN</p><p class="Para">I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND</p><p class="Para">Alone. Betrayed. It's hard to breathe suddenly and she doesn't want to any more. Her eyes well up, Reese becoming a blur as he walks towards her. </p><p class="Para">I DON'T UNDERSTAND</p><p class="Para">"You've been burned" he says "It takes a while to sink in. It's okay"</p><p class="Para">She wishes he would drop dead. Let his black heart give out. Let his lies fade. She’s with her. She chose her for a reason, for a purpose. </p><p class="Para">"I'm not like you" She growls, raising her gun at him. "I'm nothing like you"</p><p class="Para">Vile, murdering, useless killer. Bad code that should be deleted. </p><p class="Para">"You can keep denying what's right in front of you"</p><p class="Para">TALK TO ME</p><p class="Para">"All you do is follow orders and kill people. You get off on it"</p><p class="Para">"And you don't? Look where you *are* and why"</p><p class="Para">PLEASE</p><p class="Para">She doesn't want to look, all of this, was for nothing. </p><p class="Para">HELP ME</p><p class="Para">"You are here because that's exactly where she wanted you. You moved around like a good little pawn and got burned"</p><p class="Para">"I serve something greater" she stammers out "She's perfect. She's flawless. She chose me-"</p><p class="Para">PLEASE</p><p class="Para">"Where is she then?"</p><p class="Para">STOP</p><p class="Para">Root growls and raises her gun, it's the only way for him to stop talking. The sudden volley of gunfire is deafening in the open space, surpassed only by the lance that rips through her shoulder and arm. The floor rushes to meet her, knocking the breath out of her when they collide.</p><p class="Para">She stares at the ceiling, sobbing quietly as her energy ebbs, the fire that burned bright now reduced to smouldering ash.</p><p class="Para">She was alone. Completely and utterly alone cause everyone eventually leaves her with nary a word. </p><p class="Para">Reese appears over her, body hunched in a defensive position, rifle at the ready. The black void of the barrel travels across her body, from her legs to her head. Then it moves away.</p><p class="Para">SHOOT ME SHOOT ME I KNOW YOU WANT IT I HURT YOU I HATE YOU I WANT YOU DEAD I SHOULD HAVE KILLED YOU SHOOT SH-</p><p class="Para">The rifle clacks as it hits the ground, and she sees stars when Reese puts pressure on the wounds. His face is drawn into a miserable mask as he pulls her up, throwing her good hand over his shoulder. Their faces almost touch for a moment, his rough, unshaven cheek scraping away her tears. He smells of ozone and antiseptic and she wants him gone.</p><p class="Para">"We gotta run" he rasps, close to her ear.  "I'll cover you" There was no point. She goes slack, and lets him carry the weight. She hears him groan as he hoists her almost off the ground, but he never lets her go.</p><p class="Para">They run. </p><p class="Para">She hears gunfire, here and there. Her shoes squeal on the floor as Reese drags her away. </p><p class="Para">Glass breaks. An engine revs. </p><p class="Para">A song plays on the radio. </p><p class="Para"><i>Ain't found a way to kill me yet</i> The singer drawls and she closes her eyes. </p><p class="Para">Food gets shoved in front of her. She gets a new jacket. Sunglasses.</p><p class="Para">They are back at the library. She stares at the empty screens as Reese stitches her up. She hears nothing. She barely feels the needle go in and out, despite Reese's fingers slipping more than once.</p><p class="Para">Afterwards, he runs interference, the worst kind. All she wants is to suffer in silence, silence that is deafening, all encompassing, but he shatters it constantly by refusing to leave. No matter what she does, she couldn't find his base variable and that was the frightening thing, he had false triggers and no true ones. He was empty. Inhuman. A machine, but not the good kind.</p><p class="Para">"Three million dollars have been transferred to your account. Laundered." She says one day, when he brings her coffee and a shortbread. "You are free to go…go do whatever makes you happy" She isn't sure what makes him happy. Eating, sleeping, picking up clothes, having sex with Zoe Morgan, even saving people become a lifeless duty when he does it. She finds that frightening.</p><p class="Para">Reese makes a sound low in his throat, a long suffering, whistling breath as he sits down next to her. </p><p class="Para">"I'm not in it for the money" he says, Root detecting a hint of offence in the flat inflection. She turns away from him, resigned to crossing off another variable that doesn't work.</p><p class="Para">"I don't leave people behind" he says softly and leaves her be.</p><p class="Para">*But you did* she wants to say but nothing comes out. It won't bother him nor make him leave.</p><p class="Para"></p><p class="Para">Her thigh is still sore from where he shot her but she won't admit this as he grips her elbow, walking along with her. The world is loud, too loud, thousands of frequencies clashing and distorting one another. It's another of Reese's brilliant ideas as a self-appointed guardian, dragging her outside, from one hole-in-the-wall joint to the other, trying to get her to eat. </p><p class="Para">As much as he hasn't eaten while knowing him, he eats now. The food often looks and smells delicious but it makes no difference to her. She's not some child, to be coaxed into eating. She has chosen this. They go to the park afterwards, walking along the canal. Reese tosses crumbs to the ducks, watches them for a bit. It's a bit pathetic, this pretence of normality. </p><p class="Para">She tries not to look at cameras, at payphones as they walk back. She won't allow herself hope ever again. </p><p class="Para">The familiar sound of the payphone slashes the black fog over her brain and she turns before she can think about it, wrenching herself from Reese's grasp. The 5 short steps to the payphone might as well be a mile, hope and fear dampening the energy in her steps. The receiver clutters as she lifts it up, shaking. </p><p class="Para">"Can you hear me?" The world seems brighter at that moment, frozen in a glimmering tableau.</p><p class="Para">"Absolutely" she says, choking down a sob. She knew it, she didn't abandon her. There was always a plan. </p><p class="Para">She listens, Her words giving her the life she had lost.</p><p class="Para">When She's done, she's reluctant to put the phone down. </p><p class="Para">Reese is still there, watching her.</p><p class="Para">"We back in business?" He asks.</p><p class="Para">"Just me" she says, ready to take him on if he objects. It’s her mission, her god, she’s the one, not him. He’s just an unbeliever. He scans his environment, spares a look for the payphone.</p><p class="Para">"I'll stick around. I'll be watching you" It's not as threatening as the look he gives her but she's gotten the message. </p><p class="Para">Well she can't stop him. She doesn't need him anymore, he can leave and have a long life but he refuses. When he tries to take her arm again she shakes him off. All he does is fall in step next to her, keeping his hands to himself. His body is a shield, and perhaps She knew something about bringing him in.</p><p class="Para">When they arrive at the library, he doesn't follow her inside. </p><p class="scene-separator">
  
</p><p class="Para">Watching Root snap out of it was a bittersweet relief. He hated that empty stare, the slow sluggish movements. It was a sight painfully familiar. She had been a reflection of himself, how he was long ago when his connection to his purpose had been cut off. He doesn't like how she came back to life but he can't stop her. He can look out for her, until she gets the same revelation he did, in a cold city full of corpses.</p><p class="Para">Rays of afternoon light peek through the buildings, warming his face. He fills his lungs with air and exhales, tucking his hands in his pockets as he walks away. </p><p class="Para">It's cold, each breath triggering a slight burn in his lungs. Megan Tillman said he'd make a full recovery, if he took it easy. He's not sure he can take it easy, he was never once to spare himself.</p><p class="Para">Perhaps it's time. </p><p class="Para">Root didn't want him there and he had been unmoored since that last phone call. The clouds has cleared and the storm has moved on and he's a boat, alone in a quiet sea with no engine. </p><p class="Para">His only salvation would be the wind.</p><p class="Para">Montana would be nice. He could build a cabin in the woods, with his bare hands. He'd hunt and fish, chop wood every day. He'd be away from this, from her and her prying eyes and her plans. The big picture is beyond him, he's an old weapon, ready to be retired.</p><p class="Para">Without realising it, he has wandered into his old neighborhood, his old corner where he sat, dying. The phone is still there, as derelict and sad as he remembers it. The shopkeeper of the bodega is out, leaning on his door as he smokes. A frown forms on his face when he sees Reese, trying to recall but he gives up and looks elsewhere. </p><p class="Para">It's been a year but it seems like an eternity, like he has lived someone else's life for a bit. </p><p class="Para">The payphone rings and for a moment he thinks he's having a flashback. Looking up as he turns, he spies a camera on the corner, its light blinking.</p><p class="Para">He picks up the receiver, waiting for his next number.</p><p class="Para">"Can you hear me?" </p><p class="Para">One voice, male, cultured. It's the Machine, but not her.</p><p class="Para">"Yes"</p><p class="Para">The speaker clicks, like something is getting readjusted.</p><p class="Para">"I've been watching you for a long time, John. I am Harold Finch"</p>
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